


Build Me Up, Buttercup

by indierection (amandamoraisa)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (i'm going wild with the tags sorry), (more to come as i update the fic), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bookstores, Coming Out, Dan In Real Life - AU, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Easter, Easter Egg Hunt, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Professor!Harry, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandamoraisa/pseuds/indierection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Would you pretend to be my boyfriend when I go home for Easter's Holiday?” Lottie shoots as soon as their arses hit the seat, no preambles.<br/>“Nice prank,” Harry replies unenthusiastically.<br/>The girl doesn't seem to mind his unusual harshness. She squints her eyes for two seconds, considering what he'd just said, before realising it's April's Fool. “Oh, no! I mean it! Seriously!”</p><p>-</p><p>The one with a fake relationship, soulmates meeting at the bookshop and too many twins. Harry only hopes to survive this holiday after an overwhelming avalanche of hot cross buns and secrets he's not sure he'll be able to keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - April's Fool

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone! wow i have a new work out! and this time it's a chaptered and very audacious project!  
> have i finished writing it? hell no!  
> do i have everything planned on my head and two chapters down? damn right i do!  
> do i really plan to finish this as soon as i can? sure do!
> 
> please fasten your seatbelts and join this journey with me because i'm really excited about this fic and wanna take you all with me. hold my hand tight and let me know what you think because feedback is the fuel that keeps my jet going (sorry, i promise my jokes aren't that bad throughout the fic).
> 
> i have four chapters planned, besides a prologue and a epilogue, and i plan on posting them weekly.
> 
> oh, the fic is set in 2015 but in this alternative universe they're all five years older, from harry and louis to the tomlinson kids.
> 
> enjoy :)

 

**APRIL'S FOOL**

 

It starts out with the peep-hole, of all things.

Harry looks through it and there she is, the fisheye effect of the glass on the door making her head look disproportional, like a doll. There's a question on the tip of her tongue. A question which is about change their future from now on.

He opens the door and he can even see the question mark hanging on the corner of her mouth, like a fish hook, but she doesn't spill it out immediately. Instead, Lottie drags him from his tiny flat into the breezy afternoon.

Manchester in April is like a child waking from a snooze; flowers lazily bloom and stretch on their beds and the sun peaks drowsy, bleary-eyed, from behind pillowy clouds. As cats, people cross the street to walk on the sunny side of the pavement, enjoying the flimsy warmth provided by the streaks of sunlight the old buildings let through.

When Harry looks down, he notices that Lottie is wearing flip flops, her blue toe-nails contrasting wildly with her pale skin. There's something quite endearing about that visual, and he gets himself wondering if he's the first person seeing her feet after months confined inside her many fashionable booties.

Thinking about it, that sort of appreciation for silly details was what got him there, at that exact point in the universe. That way of falling in love with trifles and trinkets, of observing details that make life beautiful but other people don't seem to realise, that's what got him in Manchester.

You never remember what you were doing when you made an important life decision, have you ever thought of that? When you ask someone to marry you, or maybe when you make up your mind and move to another continent, you never stop to pinpoint when you first thought of doing those things – if it was during your last orgasm or maybe just one of those brilliant shower ideas...

You know what you settled to, but the precise time you decided is always blurred. Maybe it has something to do with destiny. With how things were always supposed to play out that exact way, either you conscientiously decided or not.

Harry doesn't know, but he decided to study Anthropology in a train in Paris. He was backpacking around Europe with his cousin Ben. It was during gap year, which he took exactly because he was too indecisive about what to do for the rest of his life. And then there he was, in a tube somewhere in underground Paris, watching a couple kissing, clearly demonstrating what they meant by a French kiss right before his very eyes. He was slightly taken aback because people just don't do that in London – full on PDA.

It was the first stop of their trip, the boys still had many days ahead of swimming on the warm Spanish coast and cycling in the countryside of Netherlands, and Harry never stopped somewhat worrying about his near academic future. He have never realised he wanted to study humans and their interactions, to research how different cultures influenced relationships, until he sent out his application form.

The thing is, Harry's in love with love. Five years old Harry once asked his mum, from the backseat of their old Fiat while listening to Sixpence None The Richer, “Why all the songs are about love, Mummy?”. And Anne told her boy then, that because love is the purest feeling to exist, and because nobody ever walked this Earth without loving something and being loved by someone, artists were inspired by it.

Harry took that answer in his heart, like some family wisdom he would pass from generation to generation. Like some motto to swear and live by. Since then his life was nothing but a search for pure love. But nothing like a crazy romcom quest, no. It was more about living without restrains, baring yourself open and letting people in. He took the risk of sewing his heart on his sleeve, if that was the prize for finding deep connection.

There were many people along the road. Friends from his hometown he still remembers with fond, ex-lovers who he'll always love dearly, strangers with whom he would just click at the word go... Yes, there were some bumps and heartbreaks, but Harry was mostly lucky, being the charmer that he is. His even-minded off guard demure seemed to be exactly what attracted good people to his life.

It was like that with Lottie. Fight Club-like, they've met at a very strange time in their lives. He was finishing his Masters and about to start as a lecturer at University of Manchester. She was on her first year but bound to drop out of college. About a year ago, in a dodgy basement flat, she came to him peeved, elbowing his ribs and hissing, “Would you stop staring, creep?”

“Pardon?” Harry had said, amused by the puppy-angry freshman assuming he was checking her out. Weeks later, when they became friends, they laughed a lot about that specific event ( _Shut up, Styles! My gaydar was fucked up_ ).

“You were looking at me,” she said rolling her eyes as if she was part of the cast of Mean Girls.

“I genuinely wasn't. Maybe I was looking through you? You know... when look at something but, like, you're not really _looking_ at it?”

Lottie measured him up and down for the first time, probably deciding that the weirdo in front of her babbling a string of nonsense wasn't harmful after all. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Not that I wouldn't... Erm. Well, I'd probably-”

“I get it, okay. Now please tell where did you find blackcurrant cause my drink tastes like shite,” she begged, ogling his drink, a radioactive shade of purple.

Later that night, after fixing Lottie a mix of Ribena and cheap vodka, Harry was approached by her again whilst updating the play list Niall abandoned halfway – by then the iPod dock was blasting the sixth Drake song in a row.

“Could you play Primadonna Girl?” she requested.

“By Marina?”

“That one. So...” she said malicious, smirking and leaning casually on the nearest wall, and for a moment Harry thought she found out that his interest for the opposite sex were practically null. “I've heard you're a _professor_ ,” Lottie finally spat.

“Oh. Oh, yes, well... I'm not a proper professor, not yet. Erm, I'm... Hm, I'm still working on speech and eloquence, clearly,” he finished smiling unabashed.

“Clearly. That's cool, though. I can't wait till I'm 25 and not as lost as I'm now.” Harry laughed out loud at that because he was that naïve at her age too, thinking he'd have everything put together by mid-20s.

“That's... that's not my case.”

“Well, at least you know what you want by now,” she said shrugging, mocking her lack of direction and unforeseen future. The girl laughed at the face of danger. Harry immediately envied that fearlessness.

“I know what I _don't_ want. And unfortunately that's not enough.”

“Hm. Aren't we all just pretending to be adults, after all?”

Since then they've been pretending together; a day of childish indulgence and skipping classes, two days of responsibly handing papers over and hosting dinner parties. Harry was there for late night calls because, “What the fuck am I doing? Hairdresser? Mum's gonna murder me.” Lottie too was supportive and got him proper drunk when the government denied his request for research funds and his trip to Myanmar went down the tubes.

And that's why when Lottie breaks into his studio and leads him God knows where he just let's himself be guided.

They never stop walking, even when the pedestrians' street light is red, Lottie stomping her feet on the concrete with such conviction that Harry's starting to fear her intentions. He knows where she's heading because they follow this route for months now, mostly during desperate times (as in: finals week) they practically camp there.

It's just a regular Costa Coffee. Well, not _just_. That's unfair to the establishment, when it's been providing their much needed pick me up and a cosy atmosphere to hide away when Uni becomes too much. But for anyone else that don't have tendencies to form bonds with old buildings and coffee shops, it's just a Costa Coffee.

“Would you pretend to be my boyfriend when I go home for Easter's Holiday?” Lottie shoots as soon as their arses hit the seat, no preambles.

“Nice prank,” he replies unenthusiastically, taking a bite of his sausage roll. It's lunchtime and he is starving and apparently Lottie got him out just to poke fun at him. He should have seen this coming, being April's Fool and having a fool as a friend.

Besides being hungry, problem that he's already solving, Harry's also incredibly tired, having spent the past night marking exams. (There's nothing glamorous about being a lecturer. Not that he was expecting red carpets and limos, but having the sleeping pattern of an owl was not foreseen either). For those reasons he's uncharacteristically grumpy and Lottie should really stop this stunt.

But the girl, bless her heart, doesn't seem to mind his unusual harshness. She squints her eyes for two seconds, considering what he'd just said, before realising it's April 1st. “Oh, no! I mean it! Seriously!”

“Don't be silly,” he snorts dismissively.

By the way she sternly slides a hand across their regular table at the café, snaking her long nails in between their cups to grab his fingers resolute, he realises she does, in fact, mean it. Is she out of her mind? Lottie clearly has been exposed to far too many romantic comedies, daring to propose this sort of absurd.

“That's... ridiculous,” Harry brushes off.

“You know what's ridiculous?” she asks rhetorically, still clawing his fingers harder than necessary. Sometimes she can get so intense that is sort of scary. “Me being the family's spinster for three years in a row.”

Harry snorts at that. She has to be kidding. “Lottie...” he sighs, using the same tone he puts on when arguing with a stubborn student during a lecture, “you're 20. You are, I don't know, about fifteen years away from becoming a spinster.”

“See?! That's what I mean!” she shouts, finally leaving his hand to point at him effusively. Oh Lord, she must be being completely serious about this.

“What?” Harry asks confused, furrowing his brows and taking another bite of his pastry.

“It's just a matter of _time_ , Harry. Everyone must be talking behind my back about my inability to find a nice bloke. I'm about to become the Bridget Jones of my family. I haven't had a boyfriend since I began Uni and Lord knows-”

“Jesus, don't be such a drama queen,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes half jokingly. Lottie is lovely, but Harry sometimes forgets that she was a teenager not long ago. She's four years his junior and still filled with lots of unnecessary angst. And apparently ingenuous enough to believe schemes from Hugh Grant movies work in real life. “That's... preposterous.”

“Oh, don't get me started with your big words, Professor Styles,” she teases, having a sip of her cold and forgotten cappuccino.

“Don't call me that.”

“Can I call you my boyfriend, then?” she asks grinning mischievously, and her smile is so bright that for the first time he might be contemplating this madness.

“That'd be rather inappropriate,” Harry replies smiling back affected, mostly to pick on her. “And I've never been your professor.”

She grunts frustrated, massaging her temple as if to squeeze out more arguments to convince him. “No one on campus has to know. I know I'm definitely not telling anyone.” Harry huffs offended at that. “Not that I'd be ashamed of dating you!” Lottie saves before he can complain. Well, at least they wouldn't have any problem pretending to be in sync, there's that.

She keeps going, unstoppable, maybe as a strategy to not even leave Harry time to breathe, “The plan would roughly unravel like this: You go to Doncaster with me for five days, eat lots of my mum's delicious cooking, she's a fantastic cook... Maybe hold my hand a couple of times, yeah? Or even an occasional peck, but that can discussed later. You'd also have to praise me here and there for my awesomeness, off course. I mean, that's obviously part of the deal. Oh Harry, everyone will be there and I'd love if you've met them. You'd be head over heels for the little ones. And I have a feeling you might hit it off with my brother. We can plan a night out, go to some pub for a couple of pints, just the older ones. Fizzy's on her goth phase, you two-”

“You gave this a lot of thought, huh?” Harry finally interrupts her rambling.

“Harry, I _really_ mean it. Really, really,” she says leaning in, looking him square into the eyes. It's so persuasive that Harry feels as if staring back at a very hypnotic pendulum. “Please, be my fake boyfriend for Easter?”

This sentence alone is ridiculous. That's not how real life works, he have never heard about people engaging in fake relationships purely because their family might think they are going to die alone. And Lottie is making such a big ordeal out of it, she's in no way near to become the Crazy Cat Lady.

“Lottie, can you hear yourself? This isn’t a movie. Normal people don't go around pretending to date their gay ex-future-tutor just because their family think they can't find a boyfriend.”

“Who said I'm normal?” she snaps, and Harry loves her cheek. Oh, Lord, why is he so gone for people who always have a sassy reply at the tip of their tongue? “It's going to be so much fun. What were you going to do the entire holiday by yourself? Wank?”

Harry nearly chokes on his tea. She's terrible. “No, Jesus! I was thinking of working on my thesis, I should dedicat-”

“Boo-hoo, booooring!” Lottie mocks, throwing a packet of sugar at him. “What about a long weekend with the Tomlinsons/Deakins with all expenses included? Now, that's a good deal.”

“I can't do it,” he says unsure, shaking his head, and Lottie must somehow notice that she's wearing him thin because she pats his knee encouragingly. This girl is going places.

“Of course you can,” she says soothing, almost a whisper, as if not to scare away a baby doe. “Just five days. It's Easter, Harry. You're supposed to be giving and... Christian.”

He looks up at her from behind his cup of tea, mumbling, “I'm not quite religious.”

“But you're nice, and my best friend here in Manchester.” She's being so patient that Harry wants to burst into laughter. The Lottie he knows would have snapped at him ten minutes ago; she must truly want this.

For a minute he ponders that okay, it's not that bad, as insane as it is. Yes, nothing about this plan makes sense. But looking closely Lottie seems to want it badly. And it wouldn't be a great sacrifice for him, not really. Just... plain madness because ok, they say they're dating, Harry meets her family, they have a brilliant time together, and then what? She says they broke up? Why don't Lottie simply says she's been dating on and off the past year? Her family seemed open-minded for all the things she's told him.

The thing that gets Harry, though, is his never ending need to please other people. He simply can't bring himself to deny something to someone he likes when it's not a bother for him. Why not help a friend when it wouldn't be much of an effort to him? Well, there are some things he doesn't like in this plan, for example, he does hate lying – and to be honest he's terrible at it. But what harm can it do to pretend to date her for a couples of days?

“And coincidentally I'm your only male friend, huh?”

“Fate is funny, innit?” She states, and Harry is on the verge of saying yes, when she goes for the final stab, armed with exaggerated puppy eyes and praising hands, like a walking emoji: “Pleeease.”

“Okay,” he agrees, only to be immediately suffocated by the girl's bones-crushing hug. “But I'm not sleeping on the floor, I have a bad back.”

She peppers his face with kisses, making him squirm away ticklish. “You're a life saviour, darling!” she celebrates. “I'm leaving today but I'll pick you up at Doncaster's train station tomorrow morning, deal?”


	2. Maundy Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all buckled because we'll finally get some action, yay!  
> oh, i didn't tell in the prologue but this fic is inspired by the movie dan in real life, with steve carell (go watch it, it's really nice).  
> also this fic has so many dinner scenes ahead. SO MANY. really, it's a lot.  
> one last think: i might change the rating, i'm not sure yet if i'm writing smut.  
> anyways, enjoy!

 

**MAUNDY THURSDAY**

 

Spring in Northern England always starts off very idly and dull. Truthfully, the weather gets a bit drier, but it's still too chilly by April, which means you can't put your coat away just yet. From the window of his tiny flat in Manchester Harry notices buttercups peeking shyly and sparsely on the small the path of dry grass that the tenant liberally called a “charming private backyard” on the to lend newspaper add.

He has a leisurely breakfast, peeling sweet oranges and cutting cubes of cantaloupe, and even brewing a cup of fancy Venezuelan coffee because he's such a good friend and deserves to be pampered. Lottie should put him up on a high pedestal, really, he isn't getting anything out of this fake boyfriend thing, besides the good times he's hoping to have with the Tomlinsons (Everything he knows from what Lottie's been saying here and there is that there is a lot of them and they’re loud).

Harry was planning on staying on campus anyway, because his mum and Robin are spending the holiday in Malta whereas Gemma is all the way in America with her fiancé. So he calls Anne to ask how her trip is so far and to let her know he's going to a friend's house. Having packed up the previous night, he leaves after finishing his breakfast and checking if all the windows and doors are closed.

The walk to Piccadilly train station is short and pleasant, the day is sunny even though a chilly wind is blowing. It's still warm enough to make all the thoughts on Harry's head boil. He can't believe what he's about to do. Is not that he's nervous, he have been in this situation a couple of time, although truthfully he was genuinely banging the person whose family he was meeting. No, he's not anxious about that.

But the whole situation is bizarre. Cringeworthy. He should turn around and call Lottie with an excuse, say he's got a sudden cold or maybe that he's sick of his stomach. Only that... he'd be a proper dick leaving Lottie waiting for him there. He could have refused this nonsense at the coffee shop. Or backed off later, when she called to arrange everything. Now... it's now or never.

The station is packed with people leaving the city for the holiday and, when he gets to the tickets office, the earliest trip he can buy is for the train leaving at 11:20. Which gives him more than one hour to spare. Brilliant.

He wanders around for a while, not hungry enough to buy something to eat. Sooner he gets bored of people watching and decides to, instead, kill time at the bookshop. Harry drops his bag on a secluded corner where he thinks no one will take it from. He's scanning a shelf not really paying attention, just running his finger along the bumpy spines of the books, when a stranger approaches him: “I'm sorry, mind helping me out?”

The man is fit, that's the first thing Harry notices. So very attractive that it’s hard to believe. He has striking blue eyes, as cerulean as Van Gogh's _‘Starry Night’_. It's almost breathtaking. Harry might stare for longer than is socially acceptable, comparisons with works of art running wild in his head, because the stranger squinches said eyes clearly growing impatient with Harry's muteness. He waits for Harry to come down to Earth fidgeting with the hem of his speckled jumper and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Realisation only hits Harry when he notices his yellow button up shirt, the same shade as the uniform of the sales assistants. Now he understands the confusion. The man thinks he works here.

Obviously, very obviously, the right thing to do would be clear everything out and send the stranger off to a real sales person. Then he'd never see the man with Post Impressionist eyes again, but maybe indulge in daydreaming about the life they could have had (three kids and a cat, at least) and move on with his life, knowing he hasn't become a compulsive liar yet. Instead, Harry dumbly lies:

“Yes. Uh, what would... What would you-”

“I need a book,” the stranger interrupts impatient, going straight to the point. “Which, yeah, obviously,” he says rolling eyes, sounding peeved even with himself. It's quite adorable. Harry chuckles to ease the man off.

“Well, you have to be a little more specific.”

“Right,” the stranger says nodding dutifully. “Hm, I need something to help me deal with an... awkward situation. Maybe not proper awkward, I'm just a bit anxious and I have a long journey ahead, do you know what I mean? Idle hands are the devil's tools or something.”

Harry looks around helpless and grabs the first book that catches his sight. “Mhm,” he hums noncommittally, trying to figure out what to do next. What’s got into his head when he agreed to help? He doesn't have a clue what he's doing. And how's he getting away with it? What's the man going to do when he finds out the truth?

Walking to another aisle, the stranger is hot on Harry's heels, babbling about how he wants “something funny, but not too ha-ha, you know what I mean? In your face. An uplifting reading. It could sneak up on you, you know? Surprise you? But in a nice way. And then you'll realise that what you thought was completely wrong had some rightness to its wrongness.”

He has a high pitched, but raspy voice, as if he just rolled out of bad, and maybe he did. Harry studies him when the stranger gets distracted with a showcase: most of his hair is under a beanie, but the fringe is swept to the side in such a beautiful way that Harry can't help but compare him to another painting. This time it reminds him of Monet's _‘Impression, Sunrise’_. If Harry's being honest, the stranger is a true masterpiece, from head to toe, and Harry wouldn't mind spending the rest of his time comparing random parts of his body to famous works of art.

“Okay...” Harry says still feeling quite lost, picking another book blindly and a third one that has a nice glossy cover. “Rightness to your wrongness.”

“What I mean is, most importantly, I'm looking to be swept away. But not, you know, quite too much. No big, heart stopping, surprises. I want something with which I can create a deep connection...?” Harry snaps his head up at that, because the man seems to think he's rambling nonsense, especially for the way he's playing with his own hair, but Harry gets it. Honestly, he completely understands and that's exactly what Harry himself wants too.

“That's what we're all looking for, no? Deep connection?” he asks sincere, and the stranger stops following him, nearly crashing into Harry's broad back, looking up at him with curious eyes. He's taken aback, as if noticing Harry for the first time.

They stare at each other for a too long moment, that stretches like a rubber band, until stranger cuts the tension with a sharp, “I'm sorry, I'm talking rubbish.”

“No!” Harry protests, maybe too excitedly, getting a book from the highest shelf of the Poetry section. “I get you. You want... commitment, but nothing too serious and heavy. Or at least not at the beginning. You want to let yourself go, but not surrender defenceless. Not offer yourself on a silver platter. To... to the book, I mean.” Strangely it feels as if he started talking about books but changed the tone to something deeper halfway through. Which Harry does quite often, but usually not with blokes he just met.

“That's... exactly what I mean.” For the smile spreading easily on the other's face, like the first sweep of a brush on a blank canvas, Harry knows that at least he isn’t too far off. Good. And it's weird but he feels oddly satisfied with himself, just for easing the fit stranger and making him feel understood.

“Good. Well, in my experience you most certainly will not find this all in one book, but I have some exemplars that might... I don't know, let's have a look.” Harry is now carrying a big pile of books. They stop at the nearest counter, Harry spreading all the titles he collected and trying to put them in some sort of order that will make sense. “We've got a pot-pourri-”

“ _Pot-pourri_?” stranger asks mockingly and unsure.

“Yeah, you know, an assortment of... Well, here's some Bukowski, he's always good.”

“Agreed.” Harry smiles up at him. The man definitely looks like someone who'd enjoy the writer and all his tough guy, dirty and decadent pulp style.

“Uh... Neruda, Nobel Prized but quite approachable. _‘Life of Gandhi, The Complete Biography’_. Cool lad, I heard...” Stranger laughs out loud at that, drawing some attention and stares of reprehension at their direction. “... _‘A good man is hard to find’_? Shit, I might have got this wrong.”

“The title alone... I hate self help.”

“Hey, some are okay,” Harry says shrugging. “Oh look, _‘Anna Karenina’_!”

“Right,” the man says arching his brows teasingly but taking the book from Harry's hand anyway. “Very _cheery_ and _funny_ , innit?”

“Sorry. Check out this one,” Harry says, showing a copy of a children's book called _‘Everyone Poops’_. “Funny enough?”

The other man fixes him with a blank, unamused expression and Harry shouldn't find him so hot for that, but God, he does. It feels almost as if they’d known each other for longer than 20 minutes, it's so... intimate. That's the exact same face Gemma does when he tells a lame joke. Harry feels all warm inside under the guy's attention.

“Come on,” he tries, wiggling his eyebrows and nudging the man by the shoulder. The fit stranger finally chuckles a little. Victory!

He snaps the book out of Harry's hand again, brushing hands quickly, and Harry can feel his fingers tingling where the other man touched him. When the stranger starts to walk away, _‘Everyone Poops’_ and the Neruda under his arm, Harry can't let go just yet.

Actually, Harry feels like a paper clip pulled by a magnet, and who's he to fight nature forces? So he follows the man to the check out, watching him from a few steps behind.

“Ah, good, you're still here!” the stranger exclaims when he turns around and notices Harry with him. “I want to make sure he gets the commission,” he informs the cashier.

Harry immediately flushes down to his neck because he's about to get uncovered and isn't this the most embarrassing moment of his life? The girl behind the desk measures him up and down before saying, “He doesn't even work here...”

The stranger turns to Harry again, making an indignant noise, closing and opening his mouth like a fish. He's frowning confused, but doesn't miss more than a heartbeat before replying, “Well... he definitely should, then.”

Harry is the one caught off guard now, and he can't hold back a delighted booming laugh because who even is this fit stranger he just found? He's hilarious and cheeky, has a good taste for books and a face cut for filthy.

Harry wonders if he should sneak away now that he was discovered, but the other man keeps sneaking glances at him over his shoulder, even while he types his PIN and chats with the cashier, so Harry waits. It can't get worst than it already has and his gut is telling him to wait.

Suddenly and for his lucky, he remembers his bag, dropped on a corner for anyone to nab, and he feels like a complete idiot. Did he really left his luggage unattended? For a cute boy? He panics for the whole time it takes to remember where the hell he abandoned it, but sighs relieved when he finds the black leather bag exactly where he left it. Thank you, Jesus.

The stranger is waiting for him outside the shop. “You... sneaky little bastard,” is the first thing he says once Harry reaches him, but the man doesn't seem mad for the way he's swinging his shopping bag between them. The bloke touches his own chest when he says, “I'm Louis.”

“Harry,” he introduces himself, giggling for the way Louis scolded him. “Ooh la la, so _Frrrench_!” he jokes putting on a terrible accent.

“Do never do that again,” Louis mocks, even though he's chuckling too. Harry has the decency of blushing as he smiles back at the man, and for a moment he forgets where they are, watching charmed the way Louis blue eyes wrinkle when he laughs. They get all crinkly and puffy, and even though it's a shame not seeing the blue anymore, it's still lovely because irradiates joy.

They come round with someone rushing past them with a large luggage and rolling it right over Harry's pointy boot. He hisses, but thankfully the rude pig did not crush any of his toes. Louis laughs even more at Harry's face and Harry wants to slap him. Instead, he just shakes his head like a dog to fix his hair, half embarrassed and half offended.

Not knowing what to do next, he blurts what first pops on his mind. “Let me pay you a coffee? As an apology for... misleading you.”

The other man looks at him suspicious, but he arches an already arched eyebrow and says, “For making a fool of me, you mean?”

“Yeah, sorry. I just... I don't know what I was thinking, to be honest.”

“Ok. At least you gave nice suggestions...” he says shrugging, and only now Harry notices he's wearing a checkered Vans backpack. It's cute. So... boyish. “But I'll have you know I'm choosing the most expensive thing they have. And a pastry.”

“And a pastry,” Harry agrees ducking down his head so Louis won't notice the inevitable smile that he can't hold back. The bloke has a way of looking at him, straight in the eye, as if hunting a prey, that makes Harry twitch all over.

Weirdly enough, since they literally just met, he's glad they're doing this. Somehow it feels the right thing to do. Not letting go just yet. Getting to know each other a bit. The stranger is highly intriguing; for example, it was very spontaneous of him, accepting Harry's invitation for a coffee with no hesitation. That's not a normal thing to happen.

When they are catching the escalator Harry nearly loses his balance, unintentionally hitting Louis on the shoulder. The other man seems to take it as playful prodding because after that they bump shoulders like a pair of teenagers the rest of the way up to the café on the mezzanine. Harry feels warm all over when they get to the shop and Louis glances him a quite flirty half smile before entering it.

Louis orders a large cup of Yorkshire tea and a Danish. Harry goes with the same thing, mind gone blank because he feels charged with the impression Louis left; he can still feel the ghost of Louis' arm on his biceps. While they watch the attendant making their tea Harry takes in the other man, who's waiting their orders impatient beside him. He never stops fussing with his fringe and is almost a head shorter, Harry realises endeared. He can feel Louis' warmth irradiating where their arms nearly touch. It's so silly. He's buzzing, inexplicably excited, heart beating at the rhythm of a Black Keys song, and it feels fantastic.

They get a table by the large glass window, where they can admire the trains down on the rails. The sun is pale yellow and small in the sky, shining a pure light all across the café. It blurs all the lines and contours, even Louis' face seem less sharp. Everything the light touches turns golden and Harry is starting to simmer down, now that they are at a safe, relative distance again.

They are practically alone in the coffee shop, there's just an old man on a far corner, and the odd quietude reminds Harry of Cheshire's never ending wheat fields. He used to bike them until he could find peace of mind, and whatever his problems where at that time suddenly seemed minuscule compared to the wilderness. It's the same sort of calmness that lands on him at this very moment, close to home not in an unsettling way, but definitely unexpectedly.

“Have you ever stopped to thing how the world is a wonderful place?” Louis asks after they settle down and have their first sips. “Pour some hot water over dried leaves,” he says raising his cup to show what he means, “a drop of milk, and that's it. Enough to make me simmer down and start philosophising out loud with a stranger I've just met.”

Harry laughs, throws his head back without reservations, because that's such an out of the blue observation and yet such a happy coincidence – both of them feeling at ease around each other. When Harry calms down he notices the other man eyeing him with a wicked look that makes Harry play with his hair fidgety. “Sometimes flowers grow even when there's nobody there to water them,” Harry remarks. “That's another nice thing.”

Louis considers his answer with a funny, exaggerated nod. “Baby animals, straight to the top five. I mean, who _doesn't_ like baby animals? Kittens, baby chimps, baby babies... you name it.”  
  
They stay in silence for a moment, Louis taking a bite of his pastry and carelessly leaving crumbles all over his jumper. Harry has to hold himself back with all his willpower, because he wants to brush the crumbles away so badly. Is not bothering him, per se, but he just feels like doing it. Like tiding things up, fixing them, and getting a chance to feel Louis' muscular chest.

“You can sprinkle glitter on your food,” Louis adds all of a sudden, as if it just occurred him. “Literally. There's _edible_ sparkling shit.”

“The second most retweeted tweet in history is from Obama. And is the one he says 'four more years' and he's hugging Michelle. Guess people love love.”

The stranger casually reaches out to nick an almond of Harry's pastry before asking with a mouthful, “Really? What's the first one?”

“Oscar selfie,” Harry informs.

“Oh, yeah,” the man exclaims, mumbling under his breath, “Crazy celebrity cult.” Harry might look at him with a questioning look, because then Louis amends, “I mean, not _this_ tweet specifically, but, you know, in general. Sometimes we feel so... entitled of famous peoples lives. Royals-”

“Ah, I know what you mean,” Harry interrupts, “I think I probably know more about Kristen Stewart's life than my neighbour's.”

“Yeah, isn't it _insane_? If you stop to think about it,” the Louis complains exasperated. “I don't even know everyone who leaves on my floor but ask me the names of the Jolie-Pitt kids and I'll tell you. In chronological order.”

“Ok, I'll tell you something that I've never told anyone in my entire life,” Harry says confidentially, leaning across the table over their cups, and Louis perks up at that, eyes shinning in wicked curiosity. “I...”

“What?”

“I used to have a Jonas Brother's blog,” Harry confesses smiling unashamed.

Louis barks out a laugh, holding his stomach and Harry shrugs not bothered. “You... You don't look sorry at all,” Louis observes, licking a smile off of his lips and taking a sip of his tea.

Harry shrugs again before saying, “Your turn.”

“Don't reckon I agreed with whatever this is,” the other man says frowning, but Harry kicks him under the table and he grunts acceptingly. Louis rubs his chin pensive for a couple of seconds before admitting, “I wanted to be a dustman when I was small.”

The old man having coffee by himself startles with the loud laugh Harry crackles, which makes Louis join him until they're both breathless.

“I thought it'd be great fun, okay? Getting to run behind the dustbin lorry and shit,” Louis tries to explain defensive.

“Awn,” Harry coos imagining tiny young Louis and his poorly thought career goals. “What'd your mother find?”

“She was very supportive, I'll have you know, Harold,” the man says still with a hurt pride. “Even bought me a toy bin lorry...”

There's a pause when they finish eating their pastries and Harry has to force himself to tear his eyes off of Louis face and, instead, watch the trains departing just for ten seconds, because he's aware that he's starting to look like a creep. It's just that... Louis is alluring. His personality is fascinating and his face is as pretty as a picture. As pretty and precious as Klimt's golden _'The Kiss'_.

“Harry?” Louis calls waving a hand in front of his eyes. “Spaced out there, mate.”

“Sorry, I... uh. Sorry,” he says shaking off of his stupor. Then, an idea comes to him like a light bulb lighting on on his brain, as if he's in a cartoon. “I was wondering... what's that awkward situation you were talking about? The one you said you had to deal with back in the bookshop.”

The fit stranger visibly retracts at that. He draws back and fiddles with the hem of his jumper, fidgeting on his seat. Even so, he tells Harry in one breath, “I'm going home to come out to my family.”

It's like Louis just hit him with a dustbin lorry. Not that Harry has anything opposed to him being gay, quite the contrary, if he's being honest – Harry might even feel thrilled deep down. But the way the almost stranger, a person he just met in such an odd way, just blurted out a secret... The way that Louis trusted him practically in the dark, is very... flattering.

“Oh,” Harry says, ever so eloquent. “That's... that's big, Louis. Massive. Are you okay?” he asks, and he has to hold back an urge of reaching out across the table to pat the other man's hand.

“As fine as I can be. I mean, my mum and sisters already know, but I'm telling my grandparents and I don't know how they'll react. I've been practising in front of the mirror, though” he says with a dry, flat laugh, trying to play it off.

“That's more than just an awkward situation... It must be hard, I can only imagine.”

Louis watches him, almost intrigued, head adorably cocked to the side, and Harry wants to comfort him. Which is insane, they've barely met.

Harry takes a sip of his lukewarm tea, thinking of how special their whole situation is. It sounds like something straight off of a Hugh Grant movie. Lottie will tease him so much if he ever gets to tell her. She will get so smug, _“So... tell me about how romcom stuff doesn't happen in real life.”_ And the truth is, he could've just said _“Sorry, I'm not a sales assistant”_ and went on with his life. But no, instead, he chose the less travelled path and got this. A fluke when he least expected.

Because that's lucky right there. Louis likes talking, even more than Harry, and he even adds his own cheeky inputs to Harry's long and dragged anecdotes. And finding someone like-minded is so rare. At least in such a short time. Yes, they don't know much about each other, but a little about their views on life and childhoods, which is also so valid.

“Wow, mate, this conversation took a depressing turn. Now you've gotta tell me something cheery,” Louis says returning the kick on Harry's shin.

Harry pinches his lower lip pondering. “Uh... This morning I was in a bookshop in Manchester's Piccadilly, you know?”

“Heard of,” Louis says squinting suspicious, once again playing along.

“Yeah so, there was this dummy, but I've gotta admit, quite attractive bloke, that thought I was a sales person. And then he asked me for something cheery and uplifting, just like you've just done. Wanna know what I did?”

“What did you do?” the other asks in pretence interest, as if he doesn't know what happens next. Oh Lord, he's so lighthearted, this way Harry might have to keep him.

“I walked around and I just grabbed stuff. I just grabbed whatever I saw first.” Harry's interrupted by the stranger laughing loudly, resembling of a goat. A cute goat, though. “Then I showed him a children's book called _'Everyone Poops'_.”

“No!” Louis shouts in fake surprise. “Did he find it funny? Cause, you know, that's a cheap weak ass joke.”

“Well, he bought the book anyway, so I'd say I was quite successful. Mission accomplished,” Harry cheers beaming smug and punching the air as the final scene of _'The Breakfast Club'_. The other man breaks character again and laughs, a loud sound that reverberates across the empty café. A sound that Harry feels the need to bottle up, keep in his fridge, and take sips from times to times.

The sight of his blue eyes crinkling with mirth again makes Harry want to know the man better. To know him intimately. Sure it's nice knowing what are his political views and life goals, but he'd also give an arm to learn the way the stranger looks like while sleeping and what he does for a living.

Harry changes his tone for a more serious and decides to ask the first personal question of the morning, which is silly because they've been talking for half an hour or more. “Who are you giving the book to? Your kids?”

“Oh! No, no, no,” the man denies quite effusively. “I'm not- I don't have any. Yet. Is not that I don't want to, far from it, is just that...”

“You haven't find the right person yet?” Harry guesses, hopes, keeps his fingers crossed under the table. It feels as if Louis takes forever to answer and to take Harry out of his misery. Christ, it's more tense than watching _'The Great British Back Off'_.

“Precisely,” Louis finally says. Harry could sigh of relieve, but in the end he just smiles shaky at the other man. “I wouldn't _bear_ having children with a person I haven't felt a deep connection with. To me, family is the most important thing in the world.”

“I know what you you mean,” Harry nods, and that's when he makes something he'll regret all the way to Doncaster. He will want to flush his head down the train toilet, to bang his stupid head against the window, throw himself down the rails because he's so dumb. He makes the mistake of looking at his watch, which, as a chain reaction, makes Louis check the hour too.

“Fuck! Me train!” the man shouts, immediately getting up, flinging his bag over his shoulder and walking away in a hurry. Harry watches gobsmacked Louis flying off without a single goodbye.

But Louis seems to remember that midway, though, because he turns around and rushes inside the coffee shop again. He stops under the flimsy light of April's sun, looking more glorious than Harry remembers, and he's playing with his short fingers, looking bashful. “I... thanks. For the recommendations and the talk. It was nice of you. It was nice meeting you. A bit unusual, but nice,” he adds with a croaky laugh.

Harry is thinking of something to say back, something meaningful to translate how he felt about meeting the man, but he never gets to say anything because Louis unexpectedly drops a kiss on Harry's cheek. Just a faint sweet brush of lips on Harry's skin, and before he can react the man is fleeing again.

Powerless, Harry watches as the almost-future-love-of-his-life runs in zigzag, cutting people off and apologising on his way to the platform. He can't make himself move, staring Louis checkered backpack until it gets swallowed in the crowd.

-

The travel to Doncaster takes an hour and a half and, although it's not that tiring, Harry finds himself longing to freshen up when they finally get to the Tomlinson's house. Lottie collected him at the train station and now she's by his side at the doorstep, arm in arm. She mutters one last, “Thank you so much for doing this,” before ringing the doorbell.

They can hear some commotion inside the house (“He's here!” “Who?” “Who's here?” “Lottie's new boyfriend” “She's dating?” “Someone get the door!” “Doesn't she have a key?”) before her mum is standing on the threshold, a teary toddler attached to her hip like a baby monkey.

“Hello, dear! You must be Harry,” the woman greets, pulling him into a half hug because her other side is occupied by Ernest. She smells of mum, roses or some other flower, very classy and comforting. “Come on in!” She invites, finally stepping aside to let him in with his luggage. The woman is so excited that it sounds as if Harry is saving Lottie from her destiny of becoming the Crazy Cat Lady.

“Nice to meet you Mrs. Tomlinson,” he says nodding uncomfortable.

“Deakin,” Lottie snickers from his side, arm still entwined in his.

“Call me Jay,” she says dismissively. Harry's friend lets him in ahead and he can hear her mum whispering, “What a catch, he's gorg!”

“Tell me about,” the girl says loudly, because she's a bloody Regina George wannabe.

Harry can feel himself starting to blush and Lottie is watching him with a side eye, but she doesn't get to tease him more because her baby brother grabs her by the neck like the little monkey that he is. The boys giggles delighted and she walks inside with him dangling from her, Harry following closely and feeling out of place.

Their home is cosy and messy. There are some toys scattered on the hallway that leads to the sitting room and Lottie's relatives are sitting on three sets of sofas on the spacious room, watching TV. There's a man in an armchair, who Harry assumes is her stepfather, and then a brooding teenager on the other one. Little Doris is glued to the screen and a set of twins lay on one of the couches. They all turn around when Lottie enters the room making noise with Ernie. All their eyes fix on the man standing awkwardly on the doorway, straps of the bag cutting his hands and coat still on.

“This is Harry, everyone,” Lottie says putting her brother down and hugging Harry by the waist. She buries her face into his chest affectionately and it's so fake that Harry has to hold back a snort. He drops the luggage, rubs her back stiffly, and then goes around the room shaking hands.

“Where's Louis?” Lottie asks around fixing her messy bun and collapsing on an empty couch with a heavy sigh. She pulls Harry down with her, sitting unnecessarily close to her friend. “He got here half an hour ago, you could have been on the same train for all we know,” she tells Harry, but suddenly he can't focus on anything because the whole world is collapsing.

That... can't be right. The maths don't add up. Or actually they do, too precisely. But it's just a coincidence, right? That would be so bizarre. If Louis was... Nah. How many Louis are there in England? Loads. Bunches and bunches of Louises and Lewises and... Luises.

“He was telling us he met a cute guy at the bookshop just before coming...”

Louis?! Lottie's brother, who also lives in Manchester? Lottie's brother who got on a train thirty minutes before him? Lottie's brother who she goes to the cinema every Wednesday as some sort of pact they made so they wouldn’t lose contact? Louis?! As in the stranger with cerulean eyes, which, looking closely now, are the same shade of blue as his friend's Lottie?

Harry is having an internal meltdown. His insides are crumbling and swirling around like electrons in the LHC, the particle collider. And Lottie, absolutely unaware of his state, is still talking about her brother's crush when the man himself enters the living room.

The bookshop stranger. The Neruda buyer, masterpiece in human form and apparently the older brother of Harry's fake girlfriend. Harry might puke on Jay's Persian carpet.

“Louis!” Lottie exclaims excited. “Meet Harry. I was just telling him about the-”

Harry can't really pay attention on what she's saying, everything is just white noise because he's too focused on the man standing like a salt statue in the middle of the room, pale and blown away. The same man he spent all his train journey thinking he'd never see again. Louis still hasn't moved, except for a hand that’s clutching the nearest armchair, nails digging deep on the fabric.

“Lottie!” Louis suddenly exclaims, as if coming back to life. “Pff! Frankly, you're overreacting, I didn't... I just mentioned...”

“Come on now! You were gushing about 'this crazily fit dork who pretended to be a sales assistant' for good ten minutes.”

Harry wants to scream. Louis seems on the verge of doing so too.

“I did not!” Louis shouts indignant and high pitched. “Will you kindly piss off?”

“But you even said-” Fizzy chips in when she notices Louis blushing, sisters joining forces against their own flesh.

“Oh, for fuck sakes, leave me alone, will you?” Louis looks around the room helplessly, eyes moving frantically like a trapped prey, and when they land on Harry's for the first time it knocks the air out of the Harry's lungs.

He feels as if he just swallowed a bowling ball. Is this really his life? It sounds too much like a romcom plot line. Oh, the irony. “You'll scare your boyfriend away,” Louis spits, “and Lord knows how long it will take you to find another one.”

“Now that's mean, Louis,” Fizzy scolds, coming on her sisters defence; but she seem to be holding back a laugh nonetheless.

“Gee, no need to be cruel,” Lottie mumbles, and she finally backs off. Looking around, Harry realises the others didn't even flinched at the exchange. They must be at each other's throats all the time because Dan and the kids keep watching Pingu Easter Special imperturbable.

Harry's still freaking out, mind running fast, and he loves this episode, but he can't concentrate on the telly. He's in dark places inside his own mind, in the eye of the storm. He startles when Lottie buries herself into his side and intertwines their fingers over her lap, for everyone to see. God, she's good at this pretending to be girlfriend thing.

Is it Harry's impression or the death stare Louis glances at Lottie was directed at their hands? May be just wishful thinking. The air is still so thick with tension, so much that you might be able to cut it with a knife. Harry keeps shifting on the sofa, trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position. He can feel Louis presence, his heated stare burning the back of Harry's head, even though he's not on Harry's sight. Only when the man leaves the room with the excuse of helping his mum and it looks like he's not coming back, Harry can finally breathe again.

“So... what's everyone up to?” Lottie asks conversationally after a couple of silent minutes.

“Trying to watch the cartoon,” one of the twins grumbles peeved.

“Yeah, if you let us,” the other one adds. Harry laughs, even though he still feels uneasy and shaky. He probably can't trust his wobbly knees just yet, but he realised it's impossible not to laugh around the Tomlinsons. Harry might already love the people in this family if they’re all cheeky like this, and something is telling him that they are.

“Jesus! Be nice, you two. Louis is such a bad example...” Lottie mutters, not sounding really offended. “Harry, let me show you my room. You can... I don't know, freshen up if you want.”

As he lets her drag him, still holding hands, Harry has a chance to have a look at the rest of the house. He's feeling dizzy and charged, as if struck by lightning, and his legs are unstable as he follows her.

Harry catches a glimpse of Jay working in the kitchen as they go up the stairs to the second floor. The air smells of chocolate and spices, and Harry wonders what she must be cooking. There are many crochet rugs, porcelain ducks and all sorts of kitschy knick-knacks around. It's lovely. Jay hung an absurd quantity of family portraits, so many blue eyed babies that he loses count.

Lottie's room is the one facing the stairway, small and not lived-in. There are peeling, faded posters on the walls and a bare desk under the window. The view of the backyard and of the river running tranquil on the border of their property is idyllic. He can imagine her teen self blasting loud music from the pink stereo on the shelf, doing her homework while watching the river from the window or getting into arguments with her older brother to see who gets to use the bathroom first.

On the ceiling, there's a constellation of glow in the dark stars and Harry is still taking the place in when Lottie says, “I know we can be... too much. If you want to rest I'll be downstairs catching up, okay? And thanks again.”

“Stop thanking me all the time,” he grunts sitting down on her bed, which is made up and guarded by an army of stuffed animals. “And, um, I hope things are okay with you and your brother. I'd hate to think you'd be arguing because of me.”

Lottie looks at him as if he lost his mind. “What are you on about? You had nothing with that.”

Oops. “Right,” Harry nods, maybe too emphatically. For a moment he forgot Lottie doesn't know him and Louis met before. God, thinking about this day he realises that now he has two big secrets to keep. How's he supposed to survive the week?

“We’re like this all the time,” Lottie keeps going, “especially when mum's not around. No worries. You better get used to the Tomlinson banter, though, we're a bunch of little shits.” She watches him with interest, as if pondering something, but whatever it is she decides to keep for herself. “Well, get some rest, yeah?”

The girl leaves an odd silence behind her. Harry hasn't actually noticed how noisy and busy the house was, too involved in his own personal Hollywood drama, but now that he's alone in the quiet room he can feel the energy dying down. It feels... dreary. He kicks off his boots before falling face down on the fresh washed duvet, breathing in the fabric softener smell and wondering how he even got here in the first place.

-

When Harry wakes up, in the middle of the afternoon, is with a little finger in his mouth. He jumps out of his skin, rolling on the bed and nearly falling over the other side. There's a round of laughs, children's laughs, and when Harry focuses his sleepy eyes he can see the smaller twins giggling on the bedside, looking like two naughty angels.

“'Morning,” he croaks rubbing his eyes, and the involuntary yawn that leaves his mouth makes the kids laugh again. This time their noise must tell where they sneaked off to, because there's rushed footsteps on the wooden floor of the hallway and then Louis is entering the room with an apologetic smile.

“Shit. Sorry, mate,” he says.

At first Harry thinks he might be still sleeping. He's quite sure, actually, because that angel with blue eyes and feathery hair, flanked by two chubby cherubs, can only be a product of his imagination. But then everything comes back, all at once. The bookshop. The coffee shop. Everything. It's bloody overwhelming and he feels shame washing him over. It almost physically hurts and he wants to hide under the covers until the bed swallows him whole.

“It's alright,” Harry finally manages to croak, voice still rough of sleep. They stare at each other for a too long and strained silence, and Harry should probably sit up straight and fix his hair.

“Louis!” Lottie comes into the room, scolding and startling both men. “You were supposed to be minding them.”

“I was, I swear! I turned around for one second and they were gone,” Louis justifies helplessly, but it's not that convincing by the way he can't hold back a smile. “You little scallywags,” he tells them off, both hands on his hips.

Doris laughs and Ernie wrestles his big brother's leg, rebuking, “No! You're a _smellywagon_!”

Harry finally sits up and Lottie gives him a plastic sweet smile. What's wrong with her? Why is she doing this? She's usually not that nic- Oh, yeah. They're supposed to be dating. Now Harry regrets waking up. He should have slept for a hundred years and only wake up when this madness was all over.

“Honey, sorry they woke you up,” she apologies and Harry hates this pet name. Always has. Must they really call each other like that? How often? Why didn't they discuss this properly?

Harry scratches at the nape of his neck embarrassed, still feeling sleepy. He can't even make eye contact with Louis. The man thinks Harry's dating his little sister. Worst, he thinks Harry chatted him up in a bookshop on the way to meet his allegedly girlfriend's family. Which is also his family. Louis must think he's a knob.

“Sorry again,” Louis says, “But it was getting late, anyway,” he adds offhandedly, and Harry chuckles at that.

“Louis!” Lottie squeaks.

“What? I'm just messing around, Harry knows.” He winks at Harry, as if they are in a sitcom or something. Honestly, who goes around in real life winking at people after saying something cheeky? What even is this whole family? They’re always trying to outdo each other, as if they’re on a _‘Two and a Half Men’_ sketch. It's quite hard to keep up with.

“Harry is tired. He stays up late all the time, reading essays and writing his thesis. Right, honey?” What's Lottie even saying? She doesn't know what he does with his nights, she's too busy herself, having a social life and going out four nights a week.

“Right. Honey,” Harry adds after a long awkward pause, hoping it doesn't come off too flat. Jesus, he's such a terrible liar.

“You must be starving, come down to have some tea. Mum baked some hot cross buns.”

The twins start singing the nursery rhyme out loud, _“Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns! One a penny, two a penny,”_ and that's the cue for Lottie to scatter them off.

Louis is still there, the two of them alone for the first time since this morning. The man kicks the carpet shyly, reminding Harry of their goodbye at the train station just hours ago. Harry realises the twins must have kind of sneaked out purposefully. Maybe even prodded by their older brother? Or maybe Harry read too many conspirational theories and is going crazy.

“So... this is funny,” Louis says and he's fussing with his clothes self-conscious, something he does whenever he's uncomfortable, Harry notices.

Louis looks around to check if they're still alone, fidgeting and pulling down the sleeves of his jumper until he gets sweater paws. Then, he closes the room's door and Harry gulps, wondering what the man is about to do. Maybe beat the shit out of him?

But no, instead, Louis starts rambling, shooting words in Harry's direction like a machine gun, gesticulating wildly and raising his eyebrows every five seconds, “No, it’s not funny. Actually, is quite embarrassing. I'm mortified, really. Could you please not tell anyone that you are... well, you? Like, the bloke from the bookshop. It's... it's pathetic that I came home gushing about the bookshop cutie and it’s you! Who's _obviously_ straight _and_ my sister's new boyfriend, how Hollywood is this? I'm sorry, I'm rambling.”

“It's okay, Louis,” Harry insists. He stands up, walking in Louis' direction because they shouldn't be talking about this out loud. It feels like a dirty secret, something to be muttered behind closed doors, which is silly because they didn't do anything illegal. Not even immoral, really; Harry is single and very gay and very into Louis. Except that he obviously can't confirm any of that.

Louis takes a step back when Harry walks too into his personal space, watching the taller man with starry blue eyes. “I won't... I won't tell anyone,” Harry reassures in a whisper. “It was super-”

“Super casual, right?” Louis interrupts, and doesn't wait for the other man to answer. “I'm probably overreacting. That's a normal thing guys do. Meet a bloke that suggests you some poetry to read on the train. Just... lads being lads.”

He's so nervous, Harry can see, and he hates causing this reacting on the other man. He hates not being able to ease Louis off because what they felt was probably mutual but Harry's fake dating Lottie. This is an absolute mess...

Louis takes a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily, and Harry realises his eyelashes are beautiful. Long and dark and luscious and Harry needs to kiss them so badly.

“Jesus, this is proper embarrassing,” Louis says laughing shakily. “I haven't fancied a straight boy since sixth form.”

Harry wants to scream. Why did he even let Lottie shove him back into the closet? That's against his principles! He promised himself when he turned sixteen that he wouldn’t hide who he truly is, yet that's his situation now: facing a hot guy who thinks he's cute _and_ heterosexual. And he can't tell him the truth. Fantastic.

Louis must have read his silence as a finish because he steps back even more. “Let's just forget about everything, yeah? Friends?” he asks offering a hand civil, and he looks so small and fragile that Harry wants to pull him into a hug. And probably never let go, ever. God, he can almost feel how warm Louis body would be against his, how his head would fit perfectly under Harry's chin, like two pieces of a puzzle. Like Yin and Yang.

“Okay, yeah,” he says instead, shaking the smaller hand. Not resisting his urge, Harry awkwardly reaches up for Louis shoulder with his free hand and massages it all fingers and thumbs. “Erm, friends,” he mumbles, hesitating to let go and fumbling with his hair when Louis turns around. As soon as Louis leaves Harry grunts and drops his head on the door, feeling the hard wood on his forehead and cursing Lottie and five of her past generations.

-

When Harry gets to the kitchen Jay is fixing him tea and there's a Mount Everest of hot cross buns on the counter.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks gently when he sits on a stool and watches her pour two cups of tea.

“Splendid,” he replies, taking one of the cups and adding some milk. “Those look delicious,” Harry compliments, pointing at the buns with his head while taking a sip.

“Go on, darling, dive in. You must be starving,” and she doesn't wait for him to politely refuse, just shoves a plate in front of Harry and places five buns there, sliding a knife and the butter in his direction too. She doesn't sit down to have her tea; instead she just props her hip on the counter and watches him with warm eyes. “So, you were Lottie's tutor?”

“Actually I've never was,” he says, the lump of bread suddenly hard to swallow. He's being interrogated, isn't he? “I never got to teach her because she... well, she dropped before I started as a professor. But I've heard from my colleagues that she was... very committed. And Lou said she's a real talent with hair and make up. Lottie is very good... pupil.”

“And girlfriend, hm?”

“Yeah,” Harry blurts. Why does he keep forgetting to pretend? Lottie will kill him if something goes wrong. “I mean, absolutely. The best.”

They are having another go of tea when Louis enters the kitchen. “Are we grilling him already? You should have told me,” he says approaching his mum and dropping a kiss on the top of her head. It's very sweet and intimate and Harry feels almost out of place witnessing it.

“Louis, don't poke fun of the poor boy,” she scolds pouring him some tea as well, not really mad. Apparently no one in this house can be really angry at the man. “When are _you_ going to bring someone for us to meet?” Jay asks teasingly. Now Harry can see where all the Tomlinson banter comes from.

Louis takes a long sip of his tea, lifting his little finger affected as if considering the answer. He's consciously avoiding Harry's eyes, what's very understandable. “Even if I _had_ someone to introduce to you, which I don't, they'd have to grow a thicker skin before entering this mad house.”

Jay swats him on the arm for that. “Don't say that about your own home!” Harry is thinking that he could watch them interact the whole day and never get bored, when they engage him back in the conversation too.

“Harry agrees with me, don't you?” Louis says, and Harry's about to nod, because even though he just met Louis he would probably do whatever he wants, from parachuting from a plane to starting a war. “He'll sneak out back to Manchester in the middle of the night, I'm telling ya.”

“Nonsense, you're lovely,” Harry protests looking at Louis without thinking, and when he realises he might have said it directly at the man, he amends dumbly. “I mean, you lot. All lovely, ju- just-”

“How long have you been together?” Jay saves Harry when he begins to stutter.

“Who?” he asks dumbly. Fuck. “Oh, right. Erm... a couple of months?” he answers unsure. Where on Earth did Lottie vanished to? She was supposed to answer all the tricky questions, that's what they agreed on.

Instead, Harry's being interrogated by her mum and her too attractive older brother. Louis is studying him from behind his steamy cuppa and Harry fidgets unsettled on his stool. Their sham is crumbling down. Lottie's family will soon realise that they are lying and that Harry is an impostor and not even that into women in general.

“She didn't say anything about a boyfriend during Christmas, did she?” Louis says cocking his head confused and adorable.

Harry panics for two seconds, his whole life flashing before his eyes before he remembers they almost were teacher and student. “We were being discreet at the beginning,” he explains gesticulating too wildly for such a simple question. “Because, you know, me being a professor and she a former student and stuff,” he adds not very eloquently.

Louis considers him for another while when they are left by themselves again, Jay gone to the living room to collect dirty cups or something. “Well, I hope you're treating her well,” Louis says threateningly, “or else I'll have to call my mates and ask them to help me beat your arse up.”

“Here you are,” Lottie pops in, out of nowhere. She gives Harry a questioning look that he can't even register the meaning before she's bending down and depositing a chaste kiss on his lips.

As soon as she backs away Harry tries to school his facial expression so he won't look as surprised as he is. He's not sure it's working, but Louis isn’t looking. Instead, he's staring very intently at his cuppa, stirring it exaggeratedly. The sound of the spoon hitting the porcelain walls is the only thing breaking the quiet tension in the air.

“Right,” Louis breaks the silence, sounding bothered. He downs the hot tea with a wince before saying, “Erm, no PDA allowed under this roof.”

“Piss off, Louis!” Lottie grunts shoving him away.

“Language!” Jay shouts from somewhere in the house and Louis lets out a mocking loud laugh, leaving the fake couple alone. Lottie hugs Harry from behind, and this time none of them seem strained, because that's familiar. That's something they are used to do, without an audience. Her head rests on his shoulder as she whispers to her friend, “You're doing well, Harry. They love you.”

He wonders who she means by them.

-

During dinner time, when all the family is finally in the same room, ten chairs around the long table, it's almost overwhelming. They never stop talking, there are at least three topics being discussed at the same time. Dan and Louis talk football while Harry explains to Daisy and Phoebe what an anthropologist does, “No, sorry, sadly it's not like Indiana Jones. He's an archaeologist, if I'm not mistaken. Which is a field of Anthropology but-”

“Well, what do you do, then?” Daisy asks popping a piece of roasted chicken into her mouth.

“I study... the humans.” Both girls look at him unimpressed. “Like societies and cultures.”

“Do you open their heads and have a peek of their brains?” Phoebe asks casually while pouring some gravy on her plate.

“I...”

“Girls,” Jay reprehends from her end of the table, “we don't talk about yucky things at the table, remember?”

“Like poop?” Ernie asks from his high chair and Harry almost snorts a sweet corn out of nose at that. “Louis gave me a book called _‘Everyone Poops’_. Me and Doris, didn't he, Doris?” The little girl nods by Harry's left.

“We can talk about it another time, sweetie,” Jay says patiently. Harry catches Louis licking his lips and then pressing them in a thin line, suppressing a smile. Lottie, sat by Harry's side, barely holds a laugh too.

“Can I say fart?” Doris asks seriously, as if the words allowed on the table suddenly became something of international matter.

“And butthole?” Ernest wants to know. Fizzy spits out some juice when she locks eyes with Lottie.

“What about willy? Ernie has a willy...”

“Enough!” Jay raises her voice, and this time all the conversations on the table abruptly stop. “Ernest and Doris, no more questions until you finish your dinner. And Louis, we will have a talk about appropriate gifts later, you hear me?”

“Yes, mum,” he grunts deflated, having a sip of his wine, and Harry thinks the man might have winked at him when nobody was watching. It’s probably just his brain playing games, though.

They eat in silence for a while; Jay made roasted chicken, mash and spring vegetables and everything is divine. Harry got to hang a bit more with Lottie's sisters in the afternoon and they are all lovely girls. Fizzy in particular seem to have grown an interest on him. Earlier, when they where in the sitting room waiting for dinner, Harry made a comment about the book she was reading, _‘The Catcher in the Rye’_ , and since then the girl keeps looking fascinated at him.

“Harry,” she calls across him, “Tell us something about you that even Lottie doesn't know.”

“I... hm, I don't know,” he diverts, not knowing what to say, suddenly shy because every pair of eyes on the table is on him. They all seem very intrigued by the new member, but Harry's not sure if Lottie is okay with him being the centre of attention.

“It's okay, honey, go on,” she encourages, as if reading his mind.

It might have been too much encouragement, because he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind, “Uh, I still have all my wisdom teeth.” The silence that follows the statement is one of those that happen every time he tells a bad joke. Shit. “And can I make a killer French toast,” he adds.

Daisy perks up at that, “You have to do them for breakfast tomorrow!”

“Deal.”

“What would your perfect day be like?” Fizzy asks another tricky question.

Harry has to think about the answer for a second. Especially knowing that Jay is all about table manners and that he has to keep things PG rated. “Hm, it would start off going to a new place, where I'd get immersed in a distinct culture and surrounded by kind people. I'd love to go to a place where I don't understand the language and getting lost in...”

“Translation,” Louis interrupts, smirking around his fork. “That's a Sophia Coppola film.” As if Harry doesn't know. The older Tomlinson is going to be the death of Harry if he keeps spilling pop references out of the blue like this. And being gorgeous and adorable at the same time.

“One of my faves,” Harry admits, blushing when Louis raises his eyebrows impressed.

“How did you and Lottie meet?” This is Dan who asks.

The girl turns to Harry with wide eyes, clearly worried about him saying something stupid. There's an awkward pause when neither of them answer the question, and Louis gracelessly cuts it off by saying, “Could someone pass me the gravy?”

His request is blatantly ignored, everyone still watching the couple as Harry slips an arm behind the back of Lottie's chair and prompts, “You tell them, honey.”

Louis snickers into his glass, but all eyes are on Lottie, who's explaining, “Well... you know Harry's a lecturer in Uni, right? He was always... cool. Like a cool tutor and then there was this day when I...”

“May I have the gravy, please?” Louis asks peeved, and this time Phoebe shoves the saucer into his hand in a rush, not wanting to miss a single detail of Harry and Lottie's love story.

“When what?” the girl asks anxiously, sitting at the edge of her seat.

“The truth is...” Harry chips in, babbling whatever gibberish he thinks they'll want to hear. “The first time I saw Lottie I thought: 'Wow! That's... That's a... proper angel.”

The twins sigh a string of awns at that.

“This gravy's an angel,” Louis blurts out loud. The girls stare at him with disgruntled faces, judging their brother for his insensibility for romance.

“What are you on about?” Fizzy asks almost affronted.

“This gravy, nhami!” he says with his mouth full. “Tastes as if... it just fell from heavens. Gravy rain.”

Even the toddlers stare Louis for that. Dinner is quickly turning into a disaster. Harry guesses they better get to the dessert soon or someone will end up revealing a secret or two.

When the eldest twins get up to collect the dirty plates and to help Jay setting up apple crumble and ice cream, Dan turns to Harry confessing, “I'm from a small family too. It's quite overwhelming, but you get used.”

“It's... It's alright,” Harry lies because okay, it's far from alright, but at least the day is nearly over. What more could happen till they go to bed?

(One hour later, when Harry goes floss and brush his teeth in the bathroom upstairs, he walks into Louis having a wee. That's the worst thing that could happen.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a reminder that i intend to update every friday, yeah? i'm still writing, but i'm trying to be two chapters ahead so i won't leave you guys waiting. let's pray i have plenty inspiration for the rest of the journey.  
> let me know what you think ;)


	3. Good Friday

 

**GOOD FRIDAY**

 

Once again Harry wakes up in a jolt. This time is to the sound of Lottie's hair dryer, and when he cracks one eye open he spots her standing in front of the mirror, already working on her long golden locks. She sends Harry an apologetic smile through the mirror and Harry just rolls on bed and stretches lazily.

It's quite stuffy inside, but he can tell outside is chilly because of the condensation on the corners of the window. He gets up to watch the river cutting the countryside sparkly, the green grass still covered in a thin layer of frost and the neighbour's cattle grazing a field on the other side of the water. It's calming and bucolic, and it hits him home.

“If you want to take a shower,” Lottie says turning off the hair dryer, “I think I'll take ten more minutes.”

“Uhh, yeah, sure,” he says, having one more look at the scenery before picking a flannel and a pair of black jeans.

He makes quick work of it and when he's back Lottie is dopey grinning at her phone, sitting on bed and texting so distracted that she doesn't realise Harry entering the room.

“Who are you talking to?” Harry asks curious.

“Hm, Jake,” she answers vague and not even looking up.

“Jake Jung? Korean bloke? Business student?”

“Yeah...” she confirms dreamy and Harry's stunned. She's seeing someone? Stop and rewind.

“You've got to be kidding me... Why didn't you invite _him_ to come with you?!”

“We are not dating. We're just... messing around,” she answers miles away, typing quickly another string of texts. “Besides, you've met my family. No way I'm going to present them to someone I'm really interest in.”

“So you're _really_ _interest_ in Jake, huh?” Harry says teasingly, dropping down on the bed beside her. “Thought you two were just messing around?”

Lottie shoves him by the shoulder for that, but then the mobile buzzes on her hand and she's in her own little bubble again. Harry lays on his back, watching the ceiling with its stars now off. His friend smells sweet, of vanilla and something else girlish, and it's almost lulling Harry back to sleep when she startles him again. “Come,” she says getting up. “You promised Daisy French toasts, remember?”

Everyone but Fizzy is up, and when they enter the kitchen, hand in hand, Jay says with just a hint of tease on her tone, “Good morning, my dears. How did you sleep?”

Lottie takes the bait straight away. “ _Really_ , well. Didn't we, honey?” But Harry's too dumbstruck with the sigh of Louis Tomlinson in the morning to answer.

The man's hunching over the counter, cup of tea glued to his small hands and soft hair smushed under another beanie. Twiggy hair and scruff never suited anyone better. He looks _soft_. So soft. Well rested and warm. Inviting in such a way that Harry is unconsciously dragged to him. Louis tenses up when Harry stands by his side, fixing the guest with a blank and sleepy stare whilst Lottie and his mum exchange a meaningful look.

“Who wants to go outside?” Louis shouts out of nowhere, jumping up and poking the nearest sibling with finger on the ribs.

“No, Louis,” Daisy mumbles peeved, jumping away annoyed. “I'm helping Harry, Christ!”

He rolls his eyes at her bad temper but doesn't reply, just moves to take Doris out of her high chair. Ernie is already holding his big brother by the trackies. Harry wants to copy the little boy and hold onto Louis too, but instead he holds himself back because he has priorities. French toast. Right.

“Pheebs?” Louis asks looking at the other twin hopeful. “Too cool to go out with your brother?”

“Fine,” she agrees, grabbing the little ones' coats and helping them to dress. “Just because I don't trust you alone with the babies.”

“We are not babies,” Ernie protests, but Louis shoves a hat down on his head until it covers his eyes and the little boy is giggling, blindly trying to punch the man on the knees.

Harry's heart seizes up on his chest, his insides getting all warm and gooey watching Louis throw the little boy over his shoulder and shout, “It's morphing time!” Doris runs after them screeching in delight while Phoebe sullenly strides along, too grown to join Louis mischiefs. It's quiet after they leave.

“So, what are we going to need?” the twin left asks, head inside the fridge.

“Right!” Harry exclaims excited, waking from his reverie and clapping his hands cheery. “Eggs, milk, sugar and if you have vanilla extract that'd be brilliant.”

Minutes later, when he's pan frying the first pieces until golden brown, he can get glimpses of the group outside throwing pebbles into the river. The low pale spring sun melted the frost and left the grass dewy, shining idyllic. Doris' orange jacket is contrasting wildly with her surroundings and it's so beautiful that Harry thinks the image belongs to a painting. He knows this is an image he'll save on his mind for the rest of his life, one of those pretty scenes that will come back to to relate it with what he's feeling right now; welcomed and at ease.

The scent of cinnamon inside the kitchen is almost overpowering; earthy and cosy. Daisy is soaking up the bread too concentrated not to mess up the breakfast, looking up at Harry from times to times, who just nods at her encouraging. The radio is humming lowly, setting the homelike mood. In moments like this, when he can admire the Tomlinsons from afar, Harry almost feels part of the clan.

Or maybe not exactly part of, but he can't help but being keen on them, affection growing stronger whenever he catches them doing something endearing: Jay kissing Dan chastely and intimate while handing him his mug of coffee or Louis running across the field like a lunatic with a massive rock on his hand. He screams like a barbarian, straight out of a horde of Vikings invading the coast of England, and, when he dumps the stone on the river with a big splash, the neighbour's cows run away scared and his three siblings laugh out loud.

Minutes later, when they come back inside, all rosy cheeked because of the wind, the kids sit down by the small kitchen table but Louis stops by the cooker. Harry flips a French toast that is not even ready, ducking down to contain a smile because he can feel Louis watching him before the man makes himself present. Why is he smiling? There's literally nothing funny about this situation. Why can't he even control his own body functions when Louis' around?

“French toasts smelling good there, Harold,” Louis says teasingly, nosing over the pan.

“Ohh la la, thanks,” Harry replies dumbly, first pun that comes to his mind. He sees something dark cross Louis eyes before turning to Daisy to get one of the last pieces of bread. Oh, right. He must be remembering their first encounter at the bookshop, when Harry made the same joke. When he turns back to the pan Louis is munching a toast and looking at him daring. The little bastard. “Heeey,” Harry says drawing the word and slapping Louis' arm with the spatula.

“Jesus Christ, I've only got one!” Louis protests deeply offended, clutching his arm dramatically.

“Yeah? Well, that was... very naughty of you,” Harry calls out, and if he's smirking a little bit is just because the other man is so bloody attractive and cheeky and his lips are now shining with butter and sugar.

It's not the first time Harry contemplates kissing Louis (If he's being honest he spent a good half an hour fantasising of how the man would taste yesterday before bed. Or, better saying, on the floor, where Lottie ended up letting him sleep). But it's the first time his skin really itches to do so. It's the first time he has to grip the spatula on his hand until his knuckles go white or else he'd do something stupid.

Louis sniggers, and yes, right. They were in the middle of a conversation. He bites down another piece of his toast before replying: “You've got no idea how naughty I really am.”

Harry can't wait to discover.

-

Everyone moves to the spacious sitting room, aside from Daisy and Phoebe who are dropped at a friend's house by Dan to spend the day. There are still plenty of people left; Harry wonders if it's possible to ever be alone at the Tomlinson's home. He's sat on a small sofa, Lottie by his side once again glued to her mobile. It's a bit unnerving because as much as Harry would like to get attention from her, at least she's not awkwardly displaying some PDA while distracted sexting or whatever she's up to with Jake.

The TV and the fire are on, some sort of documentary on that no one's really paying attention. Jay is keeping herself busy by tidying up shelves and the photos above the fireplace, even after Lottie asked her to stop fussing. Once again Fizzy is reading, this time it's a worn out old edition of _'Brave New World'_.

Louis' shenanigans with the younger set of twins never end. First he was throwing them over his shoulder while chanting, “I'm going to the market sell this fat piggie I just found” until they squirmed out of his loose clasp and he moved on chasing the other one. Then, when they got all dishevelled and panting, Louis had the idea of blindfolding them with scarves and get them to chase him.

Harry watched it all with fondness, a smile creeping its way to his mouth with such frequency that he was afraid someone would soon catch him all mushy and endeared. There was also a pang of envy on his chest that he couldn't pinpoint exactly the reason – maybe he was jealous of Louis, because he himself never had younger siblings to play with and it seemed extremely fun. Or worst, maybe he was jealous of the children, getting to see Louis so loose and being the centre of his attention.

“Want some kids?” Fizzy asks from her place across him, a finger marking the book where she just stopped reading.

“Now?” Harry asks dumbly, and Fizzy laughs at him for that. Fair enough. “I mean, off course I want kids someday, why are you asking?”

“Cause you were looking at Ernie and Dotty as if you were about to kidnap them...”

It's Harry's turn to laugh. He might have heard that before. “That's another nice book you're reading there,” he comments nodding his head for emphasis, trying to change the subject. “'Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly – they’ll go through anything',” he quotes.

“Isn't Harry the cleverest?” Lottie asks jumping in, and he isn't entirely sure if she's trying to show him off, because it sounds a lot like she's mocking him.

“Have you read 1989 by George Orwell?” Fizzy asks him, ignoring Lottie's input and just rolling her eyes at her older sister.

“I have, it's also all kinds of brilliant,” he replies excited. “Well, I absolutely love dystopian novels, because, well, because I loved Sociology back in Uni.”

“Oh yeah, Sociology, Anthropology, they're all related.”

“Do you know what you're studying in Uni?” Harry asks, channelling his own inconvenient aunt that asks anxiety triggering questions about the future.

Fizzy takes it well, though, because she simply shrugs and mumbles, “Nah.”

“She's got plenty of time to figure out,” Louis says dropping down beside the girl and throwing an arm around her neck teasingly. She gives him a side eye look in annoyance. But then he completes, “Or even to decide _not_ to go to college”, and she nuzzles up approvingly against her brother, finally giving up. Harry watches with a warm heart the way Louis fingers caress her shoulders, finding it the sweetest thing.

Freed from their blindfolds, the twins fight to decide who gets to seat on Lottie's knee while she shuffles the channels unfazed. Doris screams when her sister passes through a cartoon she likes and Jay scolds the little one before going out of the room.

“I don't know, I don't fancy giving Mum a stroke,” Fizzy keeps going. “One daughter dropping out of Uni must be enough.”

Louis clucks his tongue dismissively. “Don't be silly, love. Do never make plans based on other people. Or thinking of what other people might think.”

“I _know_ , Louis,” she says rolling her eyes, and Harry has a feeling this is probably not the first time Louis have given her unsolicited life advices. The elder brother is not even slightly bothered, and he just exchanges a look with Harry that pretty much says _'Youngsters, eh?'_. Harry has the sudden urge of putting a Tiffany ring on the other blokes finger.

“He's right, though,” Harry says, trying to come to Louis' rescue. “I mean, college life is such a nice experience, you know? It's like... I don't know, like...”

“A rite of passage,” Louis puts in.

“Exactly. It's when you learn not only academic matters, but also how to be a proper adult, I think. You have a taste of how your life is going to be from then on, you know?”

“Especially if you're moving away from a small shitty town like I did. Remember how I struggled on my first months in Manchester on my own?”

Fizzy crackles at that and Harry realises it's the first time he sees her laughing this loud. She looks exactly like Lottie and Louis when doing that, and a lot more when she takes the piss out of  her brother by telling Harry: “Lou used to call home at two in the morning to talk with mum, crying about how much he missed his bed and friends and her cooking.”

“I didn't _cry_ ,” Louis defends his honour, but Harry has a feeling that maybe he did. When Fizzy exchange a private mocking look with him, Harry's sure Louis did cry a lot indeed. Which is not a throwback at the slightest, quite the opposite.

“I was thinking of maybe going to London,” Fizzy comments offhandedly, as if it just occurred to her, and Harry knows by now that the Tomlinsons have the tendency of doing that.

“Don't say that,” Louis says dramatically, hugging her head and tucking her like a hen does with its chicks. “My baby sister is just a little girl, London will swallow you whole.”

“Leave me alone,” the girl complains pushing him away, but a tilt of a smile gives her off. “You said yourself that I should do whatever I wanted. Do you have any brothers and sisters, Harry?” she asks turning to the guest.

“An older sister. Gemma,” he tells, a smile showing on his mouth too, just thinking of his own family. “She's just as annoying with me as Louis is with you.”

Louis humpfs at that, still trying to pull his sister under his armpit, just for the sake of being annoying. From the sofa across them Harry watches the siblings struggling a little before Fizzy kicks Louis onto the floor. She complains, “Stop that, Christ sake!” and then turns to Harry to continue, “That'd be impossible. Louis is _The Worst_. I'm glad he wasn't here on Wednesday because he used to pull April Fool's pranks even on mum...”

Lottie perks up at that from her place besides Harry. “Remember that time he turned all the clocks round the house four hours back?” she asks with some sort of second hand proud. “We woke up, like, at three in the morning, sleepy as fu- heck,” Lottie censors herself, Ernie and Doris both sat on her lap watching cartoons.

Louis laughs of the memory, tapping Fizzy's thigh affectionately and teasing, “ _Someone_ called dibs on the bathroom and even took a shower.”

Fizzy rolls her eyes at Lottie and Louis laughing at her expenses before throwing a pillow at her brother's face and stomping away with a shout of “That was child's abuse.”

“I'm going to Pops' this afternoon,” Louis shouts back over his shoulder. “Stop sulking if you wanna come with me.”

“Grandpa Tomlinson? Can Harry and I come too?” Lottie asks casually, smiling up at her fake boyfriend and raising her eyebrows.

Harry has a sense Louis might not have told his sisters the real reason he's visiting his grandparents this weekend, because the man looks nervously between the faux couple before nodding hesitantly.

The whole weekend smells of disaster, as if something is on the verge of bursting. As if the truth is about to come out at any time (and, well, Louis is coming out in a way). Harry can see on the horizon lie after lie stacking up in a big stinky pile that might collapse at the tiniest disturbance. He's very aware that he helped building it up, but at the same time Harry wishes he wouldn't be there for the outbreak. Who knows? Maybe Lottie is right and everything will work out just fine.

But then Harry notices Louis staring at him from across the sitting room, eyes filled with so much intent that it looks as if Louis is on the hunt. And nothing feels all right anymore.

-

Keith Tomlinson's house is a small white box house in town. The garden is in a poor state, weeds growing everywhere, and the footpath that leads to the front door barely visible under the long dry grass. It's only a twenty minutes drive from his grandchildren's, and the ones left in Doncaster visit the man often – Daisy and Phoebe in particular love visiting him for his secret stack of chocolate. He's waiting the eldest three plus Harry with the kettle on.

The old man gives Harry a firm handshake and let them all into the dark living room. Keith seems particularly glad to see Louis, patting him excitedly on the back when his grandson hugs him. The girls give him a kiss each and he tells them, “Sit down, sit down. I'll fetch the tea and be back soon.” Lottie, as usual, drags Harry to sit beside her. Fizzy jumps on the spare armchair – the one that clearly isn't grandpa's – so Louis stares the place by Harry's left uncertain before plopping down.

“Pops, this is Harry, my boyfriend,” Lottie says when her grandad is back, the girl full of proud for someone who's lying as if there's no tomorrow. “He's a professor in the University of Manchester.”

“I'm just a mere lecturer...” Harry corrects, shaking his head modest. He watches as Mr. Tomlinson pours them tea and pops a couple of Jaffa cakes on each saucer.

“Well, you're brilliant anyway, honey.”

They pass the cups round the room and Harry is glad he gets to keep himself busy because he hates being the centre of the attention. His long fingers keep touching Louis' whenever he gets a tea from the coffee-table and handles it to the other man. Harry knows he shouldn't feel so excited whenever they touch but he can't help. His stomach twirls around like a Bolshoi ballerina either Harry thinks it's appropriate or not.

“He's really nice, Pops,” Fizzy peeps in, fixing Harry with a genuine smile. “He's super clever and he have been everywhere in this world.”

Harry full on blushes now, and he has a sip of his tea to hide it away. He might have been spotted anyway, because Louis is watching him with a wicked glint on his electric blue eyes.

“Well, if Fizzy approves you then you're more than welcome here too,” Mr. Tomlinson says, sitting down with a tired sigh. “How are things in Manchester?” he asks turning to Louis.

“Same old, I suppose. Working like a dog, going out with the lads here and there. Meeting up with my little sister every Wednesday for our Cinema Night.”

“Good,” the grandfather says, nodding satisfied. “It's good that you two keep in touch there, have each others back. How did you find the last film you saw?”

Lottie answers, “Fairly good” at the same time that Louis says, “Piece of shit” and everyone laughs, Harry nearly choking on his tea.

The conversation keeps going over tea, the three of them updating their grandfather about their lives. Then it moves to how the kids are going at school and they also gossip a little about other relatives. Keith tells them a couple of stories from when Mark, their father, was a kid, and Harry has a sense that they heard it all before because he's the only one interested in the tale of little Mark getting left behind on the train.

He tells them a bit more about his life too; the bakery where he used to work and how was his childhood back in Cheshire. Keith says he's familiar with the area and keeps asking Harry if some shops and pubs are still open.

It's a pleasant afternoon, very much like the ones when Harry visits his own grandparents. The sun is almost gone, leaving just a trace of light at the border of the world, when Keith offers them some sherry. “Just a pick me up before dinner,” he says, and Louis is the only one to refuse because he's driving.

For a moment Harry even forgot the reason behind the visit. He never got the chance to ask, because him and Louis are never alone by themselves, but Harry knows that he's planning to have some sort of private conversation with his grandfather to come out to him. Harry really hopes the other man has everything thought out because he doesn't want to witness Louis crash and burn. That'd probably be too heartbreaking.

“Speaking of dinner,” Louis says getting up as his grandad stands up too, “we better get going, girls. I'll help ya with the cups first, Pops.”

“Lemme give you a hand too,” Lottie suggests, over solicit only because they're at Mr. Tomlinson's.

Harry clearly sees Louis freezing in panic for half a second, before the bloke is dismissing his sister with a, “No, I'll do it alone while Pops gets the liquor. You sit there and wait.”

“Nonsense, you'll drop everything, you've only got two hands,” she insists and it's so unnerving that Harry can't help himself.

“Lottie!” he calls out, maybe even too high pitched because suddenly all eyes are on him, “I think... I think Louis got it,” Harry says nonetheless. Louis sends him a thankful look that makes all the embarrassment worthy.

“I've got it,” Louis assures, grabbing all the dishes he can and running away before Lottie ruins his plans at once.

The room falls in a comfortable silence for a moment, and Harry can't help but worry about what's happening in the other room. There are no shouts so far, that's a good sign. Fizzy and Lottie engage on a conversation about tomorrow's plans but Harry can't focus on what they're talking, hyper aware of what's going on on the other room. Too curious, he tries to listen to something. But at the same time he doesn't want to be impolite or overhear anything. His mind is spinning, palms sweating against the tweed of the sofa as if he's the one coming out himself.

It seems they take a long time in the kitchen, but it can't be more than five minutes. Harry's working on his breathing, trying not to show how nervous he is because it's silly, he's probably overreacting. Everything will work out just fine, and even if they don't, it's not like it's his problem. Harry won't suffer or anything. But it's just... It's just that the sheer idea of Louis teary or with puffy eyes makes Harry sick of his stomach.

The first to come back is Mr. Tomlinson and he's wearing a stern expression, gripping the sherry with white knuckles. Harry's wonders if the old man is gripping the neck of the bottle like that so he won't choke his own grandson. Mr. Tomlinson is collecting glasses from the china cabinet when Louis enters the room too, jaw clenched in such a resolute way that Harry’s heart skips a beat. As he feared, it looks like their talk didn't went well after all.

Louis walks to his place stiff, not daring to stare anyone in the eye; instead, looking right through everyone and at nothing in particular. It reminds Harry of a zombie and before he realises what he's doing he pats Louis' thigh that is closer to him, just a couple of reassuring taps. Louis jolts awake again and he gives Harry a pained fake smile. It immediately dies down when Harry leans down to whisper, “Are you okay?”

The short nod Louis gives it's cutting and, although Harry wants to investigate more, he pulls back and lets go for now.

“You two are quiet...” Lottie comments accepting the glass her grandad offers.

“It's all in your mind,” Louis croaks with an odd voice. “But we should hurry, mum texted saying dinner is ready.”

Despite always hating sherry, finding the old lady's drink sickeningly sweet, Harry downs his in a single gulp, hissing at the feeling it leaves behind. The liquor makes his stomach even more upset, a disquieting feeling creeping underneath his skin and making him shiver from head to toe. If he doesn't leave this house soon he's going go mad; he can feel the bad vibes emanating and he's always been sensitive for this sort of unspoken confrontations.

At the time to say goodbye Harry's the first out of the door, giving Mr. Tomlinson a brief handshake before waiting for the others outside on the chilly evening. There's a wind blowing from the north, and you can almost smell inauspiciousness in the air. The countryside showered in darkness looks daunting on the twilight and the crickets chirping non-stop sound irksome to Harry's ears. He shivers again with a particularly icy whiff that dishevels his head and whispers unpromising things to his ear.

The journey back to the Tomlinson's is quiet, the radio filling in the silence with top 40 pop songs. Harry locks eyes with Louis on the rearview mirror twice, and on both of them the other averts his eyes to the road to avoid further contact.

When the four of them arrive the table is already set. Harry's once again sat between Lottie and Doris and her high chair, so he helps the little girl with her spaghetti when it keeps falling from her plastic fork. She watches him with curious blue eyes, the most adorable thing ever. “There you go,” he says after cutting the last bits, and when he turns around Jay is watching him with kindness from the end of the table.

“Thanks,” she mouths and when Harry looks around he gets a glimpse of Louis sneaking a glance at him too.

It's unnerving because they haven't exchanged a word since the visit to Mr. Tomlinson. Or, more specifically, since Harry patted his leg. Still, he notices Louis' eyes diverting from times to times at his direction, even when he's busy complaining about Arsenal's performance in the quarter-finals of Champions League with Dan.

“Harry?” Lottie calls, and he startles, dripping sauce all over the linen. Brilliant. “Are you okay, honey?”

“Fantastic,” he chirps, two tones too high. Why is he so tense? Probably because he never had to sustain a lie for so long, let alone a whole bunch of secrets. And it sounds lot harder to keep them when they’re all reunited around the table. It feels as if he's going to let something slip out at any moment and as a chain reaction all the other secrets will be exposed, spilt all over the table for all the Tomlinson to see. For Louis to see, which somehow sounds even worse.

“Fizzy was telling us that she's going to Glastonbury this year.” Jay, probably Harry's guardian angel, saves him from his reveries. He's starting to look like a loony, spacing out all the bloody time.

“Oh yeah?” he asks cheery. “That's exciting! I saw Beyoncé in 2011 and she's a real queen!” he exclaims before thinking.

The silence that follows Harry's statement is alarming. Suddenly everyone stopped talking and, because he's just that lucky, it had to be exactly when he professed his love for pop music. With quite an enthusiasm, he must admit. Harry knows he's blushing deep red, can feel his face warm and his ears on fire. It's definitely not his most heterosexual moment, but in his defence he hadn't had to measure his words for a long time now. Lottie is murderously staring him – as if it isn't all her fault.

“Do you like Madonna as well? Maybe Lady Gaga?” Louis asks from his side of the table with an amused and wicked shine on his blue eyes. Well, at least he's addressing Harry again. That's better than nothing.

“I. No. I mean...” he lies, remembering quite lively how he always dances to Poker Face when cleaning the house. And If he knows the lyrics of Like a Prayer by heart and backwards, well... that you can blame on Gemma. “Just Yonc-, erm, Beyoncé. She's...” he stutters.

“It's his guilty pleasure,” Lottie pipes in in his defence. She hugs him and rests her head on his shoulder. “Leave my boyfriend alone, okay? Harry's sensitive. Unlike _other trolls_ out there.”

Louis places a hand on his heart in pretence offence, gaping at his sister and provoking a general laugh round the table when he says, “I'm a big Beyoncé fan, myself.”

The mood lightens up again and people resume their conversations from where they stopped, giggles, banter and wine merrily going round the dining room. Between forkfuls of spaghetti, Harry thinks to himself that he might be Louis' target of the night, but what's a little tease when he gets to distract the other man from the nightmare his afternoon might have been?

Is Harry still dying to know what had happened specifically? Absolutely. But he's more concerned about Louis' well being and less about his own selfish curiosity.

The man looks more himself after a glass of wine and big bowl of spaghetti, so that's that. He's acting almost as his regular self, laughing openly with his family, blue eyes hidden behind crinkles and everything. Harry wonders if might be reading too much into Louis and Mr. Tomlinson's reactions. But there's something sketchy there too. Something tells him that Louis left his grandfather's house more hurt than he's letting it show.

It's evident that he didn't tell his coming out plan to anyone besides Harry because nobody commented on it during the meal. Harry's trying not to feel special.

He's really, really struggling not to approach the man after dessert and tea for support. But then Harry's feeling light-headed himself, in that state of drunk dizziness and satiated fullness, and Louis is looking gorgeous and off guard so he takes a shot.

“Hey, Louis,” he says approaching the other man by the kitchen sink. “Are you sure you're all right?”

Louis nods effusively while rinsing a plate and putting it away in the dishwasher. “Yeah, mate, why are you asking?” he asks trying to come off as casual but landing miles away.

Harry fixes him with a reproaching look before explaining, “Because of what you said at the coffee shop, about coming-”

“I thought we agreed that meeting has never happened.”

“Come on, Louis,” Harry tries to brush it off. “Are we really going to pretend that didn't happen? Between each other?”

“We should,” Louis insists stubborn, putting the dirty cutlery in the plastic basket with a loud noise in a clear attempt to silence Harry. It doesn't work for long, though.

Jay enters the kitchen startling them, asking, “I need someone to fetch eggs in town for tomorrow.”

Louis immediately jumps in and says, “I'll go,” abandoning the dishes halfway. Harry gets the impression that the other man might be trying to avoid him, but Harry couldn't care less. Now Louis wants to pretend they've never talked about life and all the things under the sun? Now he wants to sweep their deep connect under the rug? That's only happening over Harry's dead body.

In fact, he doesn't miss a bit before asking loud enough for Jay to hear, “Can I come with you, Louis?”

The other’s eyebrows dance on his forehead and he glances Harry a murderous look before agreeing hesitant, “... Okay,” and only because his mum is still watching.

Harry is buzzing with the perspective of finally being once again by himself with Louis. The other man is not that thrilled. Like a teasing child, Louis pinches Harry's biceps on his way to get the car keys. Lottie is still sat on the kitchen table, once again glued to her cellphone.

“Honey, I'm going to town with Louis to get your mum eggs for tomorrow,” Harry says landing his hands on her shoulders and trying to sneak a glance at the screen, but he has no success. “He's showing me around Doncaster too, yeah?”

“Sure, have fun...” she says distracted, not even raising her eyes from the tiny balloons on the phone Jake is sending her.

Harry has barely turned his back when she giggles inside her glass of wine and Lottie doesn't know, but that's the final approval Harry needed. If she doesn't give a rat's arse about the two man going for a drive, Harry's definitely not the one worrying about it. He won't deny himself the pleasure of being alone with Louis again for the sake of Lottie's pretences. Not now that he had the taste of what they are like when they're together.

Louis is already at the entrance hall, putting on his coat and looking slightly peeved. “Why won't you leave me alone?” he whines when they're by themselves again. “Afraid I'd drive off a cliff?”

Harry laughs out loud, head inside of his Nike sweatshirt he's trying to put on. “No, you'd never do that!” he answers muffled, struggling a little to find the head hole. Louis helps him to dress, the same way he did with Ernie earlier that day and they stare at each other for a tense moment, Louis hand still seizing the jumper. “Would you?” Harry finally asks in an unsure murmur.

It's Louis turn to laugh. “Off course I wouldn't, I'm not fucking suicidal,” he assures amused. “It's not the end of the world.”

“Well, I'd have known if you'd said to me how it went.”

“Fine,” Louis finally gives up with a theatrical sigh. “I'll tell you in the car, now off we go,” he says scattering Harry off and automatically guiding him out of the door by the small of his back.

They don't comment on it, but Harry can see by the way Louis' breath is misting in the cold night's air that he's breathing deeper than necessary. Harry can't deny that he feels somewhat pleased with that sort of reaction. Scratch that, he's full on glowing with pride. He's an overjoyed ball of sunshine with the bright perspectives of what's in store for them tonight. It seems that the northern wind was wrong, after all.

-

Lampposts pass by the window frantically, Louis speeding so fast that each yellow blob of light mingles with the next and it's hard to tell where one starts or and the other ends. Harry lets his mind race free too, the silence inside allowing him to stray as far as his heart desires. It's odd, but even though they're for sure above permissible speed Harry feels incredibly safe. At ease.

“Have you ever really thought about how when you look at the moon, it’s the same moon Shakespeare and Cleopatra and Van Gogh looked at?” he asks thinking out loud.

Louis takes his eyes off the road for the first time since they started driving. “No, it never occurred me,” he says a bit rough, as if his voice is not used to being quiet this long. Speaking of long, for the time is taking them to get to town Harry has a feeling that they might be driving aimlessly through the Yorkshire countryside. “Pretty sick though, innit?” Louis says delayed, squinting when a car cross them with a bright headlight.

“Yeah...”

Every time the other man changes gears Harry can feel the ghost of Louis knuckles against his thigh. His fingers don't even get to proper touch Harry's black jeans, but just the idea of it is enough to make Harry tingle. It feels as if someone is strumming a guitar solo on his heartstrings, the muscle beating excited in a frenetic rhythm.

Harry feels wired, charged with a 230 V voltage. He feels like doing something crazy. Like telling Louis the truth, like cutting the chase and telling him everything. It's so stupid to sustain this scam, to keep deceiving Lottie's whole family for such a petty reason. And what he feels for Louis... What he feels for Louis is something entirely new, admittedly. But something Harry thinks it's worth the risk and something he knows for sure he doesn't want to miss.

With no fear of sounding cliché, what he feels for Louis he have never felt for anyone before. Which doesn't necessarily mean they're meant to be or anything, but it's incredibly refreshing. It's a novelty that he can't wait to test because never in his life has anyone made him as if they could talk about anything and nothing, from silly nonsense to deep shit.

Louis is the first to leave him hanging – as anxious as he'd be standing in the edge of the Cliffs of Dover, – but at the same time to leave him in a permanent state of peace of mind. It's absolutely contradictory, but Harry feels comfortable around him, even though he never has a clue of what to wait from the other man.

Being with Louis is exactly like this car drive; exciting because you don't know where it's leading to, but at the same time relaxing and familiar on the inside.

For all that, Harry doesn't feel like lying. When he looks at Louis gorgeous profile staring intently at the road ahead, a crease of worry between his eyebrows and jaw set heavy once again, Harry wants nothing but to ease him off too.

“I can relate. To what you're going through,” Harry blurts and it's now or never.

“What?” Louis croaks confused, but sounding only mildly interested.

Harry can hear his own blood thump-thumping on his eardrums, can hear his clothes rustle loudly when he shuffles to have a better look at Louis. The other man finally looks at him again when the silence lasts long enough, because Harry hasn't spoke a single word yet, and now Louis is looking intrigued. “I'm...” Harry tries, but nothing comes out afterwards.

“What, Harry?” Louis asks emphatically, interest seeming to have finally piqued.

What's he doing? Oh, God. He can't reveal his _and Lottie's_ secret without telling her first. That's a low blow. He can't jump off the boat right now, in the middle of the whole thing. He shouldn't have agreed with this stupid plan in first place. But now he can't simply tell Louis, _“Jk, I'm hella gay, wanna snog?”_

And he most certainly can't tell Louis and ask him to keep the secret from his family, even if it's for Lottie's sake. The whole story is too insane for anyone not involved to have mercy and be understandable. It's just too ridiculous and messy.

The thing is, now he has to say something. He must, because Louis is waiting, looking at him as if Harry is some sort of lunatic runaway from a madhouse – that'd explain wonders, being quite honest.

“I'm bi,” he mumbles, not believing his own ears. Where did that come from?

Louis is baffled. His mouth hangs ajar and his stunned eyes are dangerously set on Harry instead of on the road. “You're bisexual?” he asks high pitched, in clear disbelief. Fuck. Harry wants to run away to his bed back in Manchester and sleep for three hundred days straight.

“I am, yes,” he lies in what he hopes is a convincing tone. Thankfully Louis looks away to the road again, because they're getting to the city centre where the traffic intensifies. Harry feels numb and sick on his stomach at the same time. He feels as if he was emptied, completely hollowed out, and then filled with cotton balls. And now he's just a doll, vacant and inane.

Until they park outside a Tesco, they drive in an uncomfortable silence that Harry doesn't even attempt to break. His mouth has proved once again that it works on its own, and very badly. He can't even sneak a glance at Louis' direction, too afraid of the other's reaction. Harry can sense a weird vibration from the man on the other seat, can tell he's still in shock, but he can't guess exactly how Louis will act now that he's not busy driving anymore.

Louis turns off the engine but he's still staring ahead, not even bothering to look at Harry. The man fusses with the keys, then with the hem of his jacket, then he undoes and redoes the zip. He only speaks again when he rubs his eyes as if trying to get rid of his stupor.

“Does Lottie know?” he asks, of all things. He’s concerned with his own sister, that’s so sweet.

“Uh...”

“I'm sorry, that was rude to ask,” Louis cuts, shaking his head and gesticulating nervously. “It's none of my business.”

“It's okay,” Harry tries to assure, feeling terrible with himself. He's a horrid person. “She's your sister, I understand if you're worried.”

“Nah, I'm just being nosy. It's your thing and I have nothing to do with your... relationship and agreements and-”

“I was the one who brought it up, you don't have to apologize,” Harry says. “I... Hm, I just wanted to let you know that I know what it's like. Sorta.” And it's true, because he never had to come out to anyone, not a proper come out anyway – at home he always talked freely about the boys he dated and that was that.

Louis is watching Harry, studying him as if Harry just stripped off a layer of himself and is standing more bare in front of him. You can tell he’s looking at Harry under a new light, as if the person he knew before was never quite figured out yet. There are clashes and bangs and if Harry concentrate enough he can hear the gears on Louis' brain working; can picture him fitting together the pieces of the jigsaw and solving the puzzle.

“Thanks, I guess,” he finally says, solemn and distant. Harry hates how cold Louis suddenly became. He literally, physically steps back, scratching the back of his neck clearly uncomfortable. “Now... 'suppose we better get going, it's been a long day and I need my bed.”

“Sure, sure,” Harry agrees, already walking ahead into the supermarket.

They make a quick work of it, standing awkwardly beside each other on the checkout queue. Louis holds two boxes with thirty eggs each and it'd be a bizarre scene any other time of the year, but the girl on the register merely smiles and wishes them a happy Easter. Harry has his hands on his pockets, partly because it's still too cold for April and partly because he doesn't know what else to do with them. Being honest, he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Back to the car park everything is still and desert, apart from a group of teenagers getting drunk on a bench across the street. Once again Harry feels on edge, feet right on the border of the precipice, the raging sea clashing right underneath him. And Louis is being his unreadable self, which is frustrating. Harry is about to run his mouth again, nearly spitting whatever gibberish first comes out of it, when Louis gets there first.

“Let's not be alone tonight,” he says gazing up at Harry. His Van Gogh eyes look particularly starry under the full moon light. Looking closely, really paying attention, Harry can see a hint of vulnerability that just seals the deal.

There's no hesitation when he replies with a simple and smiley, “Okay.”

They get into the car and Louis lands the eggs on the back seat, fastening the seatbelt around the boxes and winking at Harry cheekily when he notices the bloke spying him. Harry has to bite back a smile from his lips ever so often because he can't stop wondering what 'not being alone' entitles. He might be coming off as a total creep – more than he already does.

Apparently his attempts to keep it down are mostly unsuccessful, because Louis keeps sneaking glances on his direction from times to times, the same way he did when he was buying books at the train station two days ago. As if he's afraid Harry will escape, which is extremely silly; he’s trapped inside the car and not planning or wanting to go anywhere.

Although, having a better look, it seems Louis is studying him, either trying to see if Harry is real or to solve a rather complicated riddle. Harry never fancied himself as much of a mystery, in fact he always thought he was more open then the summer skies. But since he met Louis the other man is repeatedly staring at him intrigued and... well, there's no other word to define it but fascinated. Now Harry can't help but feeling flattered, as if he's the sphinx itself.

He's distract inside his own head, nothing new about that, when Louis wakes him from his reverie.

“Behold the Rovers stadium,” he announces putting on a very official narrator voice that makes Harry snort out a chuckle.

It's not that impressive, Harry must confess. From where they are you can only see its blue lights and when they pass by it closely by the adjacent road there are just some shops, all closed by this time of the night.

“Have you ever been inside?” Harry asks.

“Have I? I used to work there when I was a younger, at a food stand.”

“Nice,” Harry replies conversationally

“Mhm, not really,” Louis says as he gets a roundabout and they get an access back into town. “My boss was a wanker. Everyday I would count my money wishing I had enough to finally quit and tell him to fuck off.”

“So you could finally pursue your career as a dustman?” Harry jokes, feeling a bubble of pride and accomplishment growing on his chest when Louis laughs.

He crackles out loud, even throws his head back, and Harry's glad that the road is empty because they could have caused an accident, but even more glad because he's made Louis squawk.

Harry licks a smug smile out of his lips before turning to Louis and asking, “Where are we going next?”

“Dunno. You know we don't have much to see, right?” the other answers shrugging. “Imagine what was like growing here, with nothing to do...”

“I'm sure you've still got more options than we did in Holmes Chapel.”

Louis nods agreeing. “I'll give you that. But life in a small town is rough. Specially when you're... well, when you're different in a way. In any way.”

The streets are quiet and all theirs. It's not even proper late, it can't be more than 9 PM, but the curfew in Doncaster must be early for the Good Friday. There are pubs open here and there, but even so the movement seem to be slow. They pass by a school that Louis points out and says he studied at, says the elder twins are the ones going there now.

“I wouldn't go as far to say I didn't fit in, but I never truly felt as if I belonged there either,” Harry keeps going. “I've always wanted something more.”

“Did you find it in Manchester?” Louis asks looking at him, then turning the steering wheel in a sexy way that makes Harry divert for a moment. Muscles straining in a forearm are very distracting, okay?

“Uh... hard question,” he says snapping back. “Hm, I don't know. In a sense, yeah. At the same time, though, I don't feel... I don't know, I don't feel I can settle down just yet.”

“You want to travel more, yeah?” Louis prompts, a bit distracted as he stops on a crossroad cheeking if he can cross.

“I suppose,” Harry answers watching from the car window the minster appearing by his right.

It's striking, bigger than he thought it'd be. The church stands high and opulent against the dark sky, cutting the view with an outstanding presence. “I can't explain, but I just don't feel entirely complete,” Harry confesses as Louis parks the car on a parallel cul-de-sac.

“That's quite difficult to achieve, no?” Louis asks fixing his fringe, in a manner that Harry noticed he does constantly. It's not necessarily a nervous tick, though. “The great and definitive happiness achievement. I don't think any of us ever will feel that.”

“That's very pessimistic of you, Louis.”

The other man merely shrugs unperturbed, not even minding to correct Harry. Maybe he has become a pessimist after his conversation with his grandfather this afternoon? Harry's tongue itches with curiosity, he really wants to interrogate Louis and learn how things went, but he doesn't feel like pressuring the other man. They are practically strangers, after all.

Sat side by side, they watch the old building across the green lawn, moths flying around the nearest lamppost and the Union Jack flag fluttering on the top of the bell tower.

“Wanna know what I feel like doing?” Harry asks instead, since he doesn't want to question Louis about the whole coming out ordeal.

Louis gives him a side eyed glance before mumbling, “Not really...”

Harry huffs offended at that, crossing his arms like a vexed toddler. He really spent sometime while they were driving around racking his brain and trying to come up with something they could do to avoid being alone. So, although he's not really upset, pulling on a show mostly to crack a smile on Louis' face, he can't help but fear that Louis will call the whole night off.

Louis is half-smiling when he sighs and finally gives in. “What do you feel like doing, Harold?”

“Bowling,” he answer with a radiant smile, and it grows even more when Louis responds with a surprised popped-eyed smile of his own. He loves getting the man out of guard. “To knock some shit down to the ground.” Louis laughs out loud at that.

“Wow, Harold, how punk rock of you,” he mocks ironic.

“'You're not hardcore if you don't live hardcore',” Harry replies, quoting School of Rock. For the way the other man huffs out a chuckle and shakes his head he knows the reference way too well.

“You better stop quoting Jack Black movies or I might fall for your skinny arse.”

That sentence is followed by an awkward silence. Louis looks like he wants to bite his tongue off and swallow it, but Harry's just stunned. Did Louis really meant it? And that's all it takes? Harry quoting questionable comedy classics and just being his usual dork self?

“My ass is not skinny, excuse me,” Harry answers offended, a tad late. “I squat every single day. Religiously. Now would you please drive us to the nearest bowling alley?”

Louis looks at him amused with a small knowing smirk and scrutinizing eyes – that unnerving way he does as if studying Harry – before turning the key. He's humming something under his breath while manoeuvring and at first Harry can't tell what it is.

They're back on the road when Harry realises it's Anaconda, and when he locks eyes with Louis they burst into loud twin crackles.

-

They've been bowling for half-an-hour when Harry comes to the conclusion that he's potentially screwed and very likely crushing on Louis. Hard. Or potentially screwed _because_ he's crushing on Louis. In his defence, it is like the whole night is set up for it and some higher being is pulling on strings and landing Harry right into Louis' arms, over and over again.

The situation can be viewed either way: as a disaster, if you consider that Harry has a whole bunch of tall tails to tell and keep; or as a blessing, if you think of how rare it is to find a person who matches all your expectations, even the ones you never knew you had.

And Louis is sooo Harry's cup of tea. Right up his alley. Fitting like a glove. For example, during the first three rounds he was pulling on a competitive façade, shouting discouragements to Harry and acting all smug when he managed to do two double strikes in a row. And Harry was absolutely charmed.

Then Louis fails spectacularly on the third frame, throwing the ball straight into the side gutter. He stomps mad, huffing angry but still utterly endearing. That's enough to make him give up of his plans of becoming a Bowling Master, he announces. And Harry's for sure keen on him.

After the fiasco Louis' strategy changes. Now his goal seem to be make Harry laugh to the point of tears; so hard that he won't be able to score a single spare. So far, although Harry's belly is indeed aching with how much he's been laughing, he's still thirteen points ahead of Louis.

“You're trotting like a horse,” Harry complains laughing out loud. Louis is galloping down the bowling alley, ball held high like a waiter holding a plate, and putting on a proper show.

“Shut up, Harold. Let me be,” he retorts boldly, throwing the ball and knocking only half of the pins down.

On his second attempt, Louis throws the ball with such a loud pang that Harry swears he sees it kick. “You're gonna break the fucking alley,” Harry screeches, laughing nonetheless when Louis bows down mockingly, like an actor at the end of play, because he scored a spare.

The bowling alley is practically empty, there's another couple playing five lanes down from theirs, and a group of seniors on the far left, but Harry and Louis are undeniably the loudest group. Thanks to Louis, mostly.

With their pact of not being alone or sleeping tonight in his mind, Harry suggested they'd have some Red Bull to chuck down the chips they've been snacking on. Now Louis is even more hyper than his usual self. That was clearly a poorly thought plan. Which, if Harry's being honest to himself, he doesn't regret for a second.

Louis is glowing, he's a tiny ball of condensed energy that never stops moving; throwing his balls in all sorts of funny antics, pestering Harry when is the other man's turn, messing with the waitress when she asks them if they want another round of Red Bull... Harry isn't sure, but he’d guess Louis is acting particularly mischievous to try to hide how upset he still is, in an attempt to distract himself and avoid discussing it with Harry.

But Harry is rolling with him either way. Louis is undoubtedly the funniest and most captivating person Harry's ever met. He looks absolutely the cutest with the sleeves of his shirt pulled up and the most precious thing with a bicolour smelly pair of bowling shoes. It's almost overwhelming having his full attention, Harry thinks, suddenly not knowing what to do because Louis keeps calling him Harold and touching him everywhere with careless disregard and just being his amazing self towards Harry.

He sits down by Harry's side smiling cheeky, snatching a chip and popping into his mouth. Harry watches with fond him fixing his fringe on his sweaty forehead. Just for a change Harry's staring at the whole scene, lost in his mind, for longer than he thought, because then Louis says peeved, “So? It's your turn,” and Harry stumbles up to get a ball.

Harry makes a scene of choosing one, taking so much time that Louis sighs loud and playfully.

“Don't hold the ball with both hands,” he tells off, rolling his eyes when he realises Harry is rocking a pink ball like a baby.

“Let me be,” he copies Louis, throwing a coquettish smile over his shoulder. He takes an exaggerated swing of the heavy ball, wiggles a little, struggling to find the right position, and then knocks all the pins down at once.

Louis gasps indignant. “That's cheating...”

“Uh-oh. I think someone is a sore loser...” Harry teases, smiling smug and throwing his hair.

“I'm only calling it like I see...” he retorts measuring Harry with a disdainful glance.

“Fine, throw it from between my legs, then” Harry suggests, as if it's a regular thing to do. That gets Louis attention; he looks at Harry confused and stunned, disbelief dancing in his eyes as if he's seeing an intriguing sea creature he found on the shore. “For good luck,” Harry says further, as if that piece of information explains something.

“But it's still your turn,” Louis hesitates.

“Go on!” Harry insists, opening his long legs far apart from each other, back turned to the pins that are still standing and facing Louis with an encouraging smile. Louis shakes his head smiling back before picking up the first ball he sees, taking a long, unnecessary distance and running in Harry's direction in full speed.

Later Harry will admit that he was scared to death that Louis would run over him, but he stayed still anyway, waiting for the impact that never came. Instead, there is the a whoosh of the ball passing between his legs and then the sound of the skittles being knocked down. Louis launches himself on Harry's neck screaming “Cheers!” before neither of them have to overthink it.

He's warm and surprisingly heavy against Harry. Harry doesn't know if it's the enthusiastic hug or just Louis' boyish woody smell that knocks out all of the air in his lungs, but suddenly it's very hard to breathe. The hug doesn't last long, but it's enough for Harry to feel Louis' mouth against his shoulder, warm and dewy, making Harry's skin tingle even under the shirt.

“Thanks for the points,” Harry says husky when they break away, and Louis takes a couple of seconds to understand, but when it clicks he punches Harry's biceps.

“You twat. Now you've got to help me to score a strike.”

“Absolutely not,” Harry says teasingly stubborn, although he knows he'll never deny unimportant small things to Louis.

“Harold, don't be selfish,” the other man scolds in a warning tone, but Harry crosses his arms clearly in protest. “You own me. After fooling me at the bookshop. Let's go together,” Louis offers.

“Two balls at the same time?” Harry asks, and him and Louis are laughing as soon as the innuendo is out. They are worst than a pair of teenagers. “But seriously, that can't be allowed.”

“Aw, arent you cute following all the rules?” Louis mocks cocking his head to the side demeaning.

Harry burns hot under his look, and he's flushing when he says, “I'm sorry for respecting conventions and making life in society better.”

“Are you quite finished?” Louis says impatience, grabbing a ball and dangerously swinging it without paying attention to his surroundings. “Good, now go grab a ball yourself, we are doing this my way.”

“Louis, they'll kick us out,” Harry warns, getting a ball nonetheless.

“We better do it in style then,” the other replies unfazed, wiggling his eyebrows and then looking determined at the ten pins waiting to be knocked down down the alley.

Harry's heart is palpitating excitedly on his chest while they take distance and it's so silly. What they're doing is mildly, barely wrong and positively harmless. Even so, he can't help but being thrilled as they wait side by side. His beating heart stumbles when Louis smiles at him, a private and devilish smile and then Louis is counting. “Three, two…”

They start running and Harry tries to slow down, to give Louis' smaller legs a bit of leverage, but the other man is faster than he predicted. As Harry tries to catch up with the other man surpassing him, he trips on his own feet and somehow manages to fling his ball backwards, letting it hit with a crashing tug the panel that counts the scores. Louis stops on his tracks just on time, as he was already bending down to roll his ball. When he realises what happened he lets it fall to the ground too and starts laughing aloud.

He laughs until he cries, holding his belly and pointing at Harry's stupid face. It's rather annoying; Louis is being a proper wanker, but Harry joins him anyway. Harry is blushing, giggling inside of his hands when he feels Louis patting his shoulder and saying, “You're something else, aren't ya?”

“Shut up,” he retorts embarrassed. “Are we doing this or not?”

“Of course! Ready? Set,” Louis says taking distance again, Harry concentrating not to mess up this time. “Go!” Louis shouts and this time they're running as if they're part of Chariots of Fire.

Their balls slide down the lane together but they are not watching, too busy high-fiving and smiling at each other like a pair of robbers that broke into the Bank of England. Louis eyes are just two slits on his face and he looks like the sun itself. Harry wants to scream with how handsome the other man is. Something must go wrong, though, because there's still a skittle standing when they turn to watch the result. The waitress from before is walking down in their direction now and she doesn't seem pleased at all.

“I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I must ask you two to leave. You've been disturbing the other costumers the whole night... and now this,” she calls out, pointing at both of their balls clearly stuck at the end of the lane – apparently they could've really broken the thing down.

Harry at least has the decency of blushing, but Louis merely murmurs a half-hearted “Sorry” before she shows them out. As soon as they set foot outside on the chilly night they burst in a string of laughters again, their loud sound echoing through the desert car park. And as hilarious as the whole situation was, Harry can't stop himself from crackling mainly because he's so bloody _happy_. Louis has this ability of making everything light; like Midas, all the things he touches turn golden.

They get into the car still chuckling remainders of laughter and when Louis starts the engine to turn the heating on, Harry realises looking at the dashboard that it's nearly midnight. “What now?” Louis asks sounding almost unsure, as if he's afraid Harry's about to back off.

For some reason Harry glances at the back seat to check on the eggs and that's when he has a brilliant idea. “Your grandpa lives nearby, right?”

“Yeah, just round the corner,” Louis answers suspicious.

Harry thinks that it's now or never, deciding that Louis will most certainly endorse his plan, and asks, “Could you maybe please stop by at his?”

“No. Why?”

“Cause I forgot something there,” Harry lies. He can't explain in details because it will spoil the surprise factor. “My... phone.”

“Harry, I saw you on your phone just minutes ago,” Louis says, not having it.

Why is Louis so bloody observant? “Fine. But can you please just pass by his street, real quick?”

“Tell me why,” the other man insists, going to poke Harry on the ribs. But Harry's faster, he somehow knew Louis would resort to violence to squeeze the truth out of him, catching the man by the wrist mid-air.

“Don't you trust me?” Harry asks staring Louis square in the eyes – and if he goes for the Puss In Boots begging eyes... Well, everyone does with what they've got. “It's nothing much, I swear.”

“Just promise me that it's nothing illegal that will get us all killed.”

“You're so cute following all the rules,” Harry quotes Louis.

Louis squints at his direction threateningly before sighing, putting his arm on the back of Harry's headrest and engaging reverse, burning rubber as he manoeuvres the car like a maniac.

“'You're not hardcore if you don't live hardcore', you said?” Louis banters, as if they're in a movie scene or something and his line is that stupid catchphrase. Harry would hate his character, he really would, if he weren't already head over heels for the smug ball of light that is Louis Tomlinson.

The idea behind the night was to distract Louis from his conversation with grandpa Tomlinson today, but in the end Harry was the one who managed to forget the world and everything else for the entire time they've been together. Manchester and his new thesis sound like a distant dream. His fake girlfriend Lottie and the web of lies Harry's got himself tangled in sound like a long gone bad memory.

All that matters at this moment in time is how invincible and young he feels when he's with Louis. All Harry cares about is how Louis makes him believe he can _and should_ do everything that he wants. And Louis never told him, of course he didn’t, but Harry knows in some extend that the other man would even volunteer to help. He has seen Louis with his family, he knows the man will be there to back up whoever asks him. Up for all the silly nonsense. 

Now, after Louis, life sounds almost too short and destined to be dull, because they'll never get to live it together will they? Harry knows he missed the mark, knows the chance with Louis is gone because he’s swamped in this bloody mess and there’s no way out. It's such a pity to waste… this. This promising relationship. This deep connection.

There's nothing he can really do for now, though. And even when Easter is over, he won't be able simply tell Louis the truth. Okay, he could at least try to explain, but he can't expect him to understand and accept. It's quite frustrating, getting to experience some sort of intimacy with Louis, like they've just done, but only a taste, a short glimpse of what they could have been. It's definitely not enough.

It's like watching a trailer but never getting to see the whole film. And Louis is a whole saga. He'd make a special Blu-Ray edition with five discs and everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello! so, another friday, another chapter.  
> i hope you liked this one but... well, the truth is: i'm trash.  
> i didn't write at all this week and i have nearly nothing of the next chapter D: but i think, hope, i'll be able to pull chapter three out of my arse this weekend.  
> anyways, i hope you had a nice reading :) let me know what you think


	4. Holy Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i know i know. i'm trash. this hiatus was... ridiculously long and i don't even know how to excuse myself. 
> 
> i'm deeply sorry, but i hope you can enjoy this update :)

**HOLY SATURDAY**

 

“Now...” Louis begins, stopping the car two houses down his grandfather's small white one. He looks at Harry expectantly, arching his eyebrows in a way that distracts Harry from answering for a couple of seconds.

“Okay,” Harry finally says, shaking out of his stupor. “Yeah, we're doing this. Definitely. I mean, not _definitely_. I'm not forcing you to do anything, obviously. Especially when...”

“Stop rambling, please,” Louis interrupts impatiently. “Now explain: what _exactly_ are we doing?”

Harry huffs out a nervous laugh. Is he really proposing this to Louis?  It's insane! He might have had too much Red Bull to drink. What if Louis punches him or something? He probably won't even be down for it... Actually, it depends on what his grandfather said. “Sorry. Uhm, just to be sure... the conversation with your granddad didn't go well, did it?”

“Why are you asking?” Louis asks suspiciously, unbuckling his seatbelt so he can turn around and take a good look at Harry. Harry suddenly feels hot and self conscious under the spotlights that are his eyes.

“Because... because, I'm about to do something slightly naughty,” he explains biting his bottom lip nervously. “But I'll only do it with a good reason. Sorry, if I'm being nosy but, from what I noticed, you were a bit upset after you talked to him. You don't have to tell me _exactly_ what happened but-.”

“He told me he was glad I wasn't his real grandson,” Louis blurts out without any warning and it weighs on them as if a blue whale just fell from the sky right on top of the Ford Fiesta they're inside.

“What?!” Harry exclaims, shell shocked.

Louis closes his eyes before explaining, “I'm... I'm not dad's- Mark's real son.” He looks incredibly fragile all of a sudden, no more than a child. Just a delicate bud before Harry's eyes; a frail twig about to bend and snap in the eye of a hurricane.

Something fiery hot bubbles in Harry's chest, almost as if he was personally attacked. An anger that he had never felt before, not for something so small. But it's not small, is it? It's... big and outrageous, and must have left Louis hurting so badly. “My mum already had me when she married Mark. So, he adopted me,” Louis explains in a small voice. “I guess I'm not technically... part of the family.”

“Louis...” Harry murmurs, the softest that he can, holding himself back even though he's dying to touch Louis, anywhere, and shoo away his unhappiness.

“Please, don't pity me,” Louis pleads, looking at his own lap, not meeting Harry's eyes.

“No, I'm... pitying _him_. For being such an awful person,” Harry spits, disgruntled. “I'm sorry, I know he's your grandfather...”

Louis lets out a heartbreakingly shaken laugh at that. “Is he?”

“...but that was low,” Harry keeps going, ignoring what Louis had just said. “It's... disgusting. Sorry, I-” Harry shakes his head, still baffled, but he watches Louis fiddling with his short nails and stops for a moment. Realising how his anger doesn't matter. Nothing matters but Louis. “How are _you_ feeling?” Harry asks, full of intent, hoping a simple inflection in his voice will be able to translate to Louis how his feelings are what's really important now.

The other man simply smiles gently at him. Harry wants to wrap him in a hug and rock him to sleep until he forgets about this terrible day. He looks so terribly young. Harry feels like protecting Louis as if he's still a boy, not a man years older than himself.

There's an odd silence now and down the road the wind is blowing a willow tree in a way that makes everything inside the car even more quiet. Harry feels out of place sat in silence beside Louis, the moment weighting bigger than it should considering that they are practically strangers.

But, still, there must be a way to comfort him. Harry has to at last let Louis know how wonderful he is, how important he is to his mother and siblings. Even if he can't talk on his behalf, afraid of sounding too creepy since they barely know each other, Harry can at least remind Louis of how much his family cares.

“You know your family is very supportive of you, yeah?” Harry says. “I've seen them: Your mum, Fizzy and the twins... Lottie worships the ground you walk on; whenever she talks about her older brother it’s always something flattering. She's very proud of you.”

“Stop, you'll make me cry,” Louis complains, reaching out to punch Harry's biceps, trying to play off the heaviness of the moment.

“Sorry,” Harry says in defence. “I didn't mean to. I just want to make sure you know that...”

“Stop talking, Harold,” the man shouts playfully, with just a hint of shakiness behind his voice.

Harry puts a hand over his mouth in an exaggerated manner that makes Louis let out a watery laugh. Harry watches him playing with his short nails, trying to recover from their emotional talk. “So... what the fuck are we doing here?” Louis asks when he decides the silence has lasted for too long.

“Uh, I'm not sure if we should...”

“Are you chickening out?” Louis asks, both hand on his hips in an exaggerated way.

Harry can't help but let out a laugh because Louis has no idea what Harry’s master plan is, but he’s teasing Harry regardless. Oh God, he's so gone for Louis. “How did you know it has something to do with chickens?” Harry asks cheekily.

“I don't,” Louis replies, frowning, not for the first time weirded out by Harry's madness.

Unfazed by Louis' judging look, Harry rubs his hands together as if he's a super villain, and Louis snorts.

“Okay, here's the plan...” but before Harry can finally explain he changes his mind. “No, even better! I'll show you.”

Turning around to reach the backseat, he unbuckles the seatbelt that's holding three egg containers and Louis, being the biggest prankster of all Yorkshire and the Humber, immediately catches on.

“Harry...”

“What?” he asks innocently, blinking his big eyes at Louis.

“We're not egging my grandpa's house,” Louis says, but his voice doesn't sound as if he quite agrees with what he’s saying.

“Why not?” Harry asks, mainly for the banter. He likes bantering with Louis. But there's just silence from the other side of the car. Louis is not even trying to convince him this is a bad idea.

In fact, Louis reaches for the door handle and opens the driver’s door, letting the cold night wind enter the car as he gets out. Harry's the one surprised now. When he opens his own door, egg box balanced under his left arm, he climbs off and circles the car to the sight of Louis sporting a rather devilish smile. Harry's stomach does an unexpected cartwheel inside of him, flipping full on 360 degrees when Louis smile grows bigger as he says: “Fine, give me a big one.”

Harry skips to the front of Keith Tomlinson's house and carefully hands Louis one of the thirty eggs. The other man dangerously juggles it from one hand to the other, smiling smugly at Harry when the egg softly lands in his right hand, intact. He kisses it for good measure and doesn't even aim before throwing it like a cricket ball. Crack! The egg hits the front of the house square at the top, running down yellow, and Harry thinks it looks almost poetic.

“Can I go next?” he asks, already selecting an egg and placing the carton on the ground.

“Please,” Louis says, mockingly bowing down, pointing the house with a flourish. “Be my guest.”

Harry squawks excitedly, can't help, and Louis watches, shaking his head and looking quite endeared. “Go on!” he mouths, suddenly aware that what they're doing might be slightly illegal. Blowing air out of his mouth for theatricality, Harry throws his egg with so much force that it hits one of the windows with a loud pang.

“Fuck, Harry!” Louis whispers through quiet chuckles.

“Sorry,” he mouths shrugging.

Already armed with two eggs, Louis wastes no time before throwing them, laughing in delight at the aftermath. He watches with glee as Harry also tosses two, one so lightly that it lands on the ill-treated garden, and the other on the wall near Louis' first one. Their hands bump when they reach down for more. The thrill of excitement filling both of them is enough to make the cool April air sizzle.

They can't stop giggling, worse than schoolchildren, and Harry feels younger than ever. After more hits there's a constellation of egg yolks painting the façade yellow. Clumsy as he is, Harry drops one of the eggs right on the pointy point of his boot, splashing it all over the right leg of his jeans. He curses under his breath, Louis laughing loudly when he notices the accident. He looks cheery, exhaling pure joy, and Harry wants to brag to the whole world how he, himself, managed to make the other man genuinely smile again.

Louis' eyes are still two beautiful slits surrounded by gorgeous crinkles when he slings one egg so fast that it hits the front door with a loud thump. Five seconds after that the lights inside the house are switched on and Harry's knees instantly turn jelly.

“Fuck!” he exclaims eloquently.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Louis hisses even more articulated, starting to flee in the direction of where Jay's car is parked without looking back with Harry hot on his heels.

Louis fumbles trying to open the car and when he finally finds the fucking button to do so he screams, “Get the fuck in!” He laughs loud and shamelessly as Harry stumbles his way inside of it. He frantically sticks the key in, turning it and hitting the gas pedal as fast as he can.

“We're smelly,” Harry complains holding his hands up. They go round a bend into a new street and it seems safe to breathe and talk again. When Louis turns to Harry his eyes are shining wild, an electric shade of blue, and Harry involuntarily shudders.

“ _You're_ smelly,” Louis eventually answers, voice laced with excitement. “But that was sick!”

“Thanks,” Harry says, timidly.

“No, thank _you_ , for getting me head out of it. And for giving me an opportunity to avenge myself,” Louis chuckles at that. “Oh God, grandpa is going to be _so_ pissed.”

“Too bad we couldn't stay to see his face,” comes Harry's cheeky reply.

“Indeed.”

The drive back to The Deakin/Tomlinson residence is peaceful, which helps them to wire down a bit. In the background Morrissey is singing about how everyday is like Sunday and Harry hums softly to it, playing with his long hair absently. He can feel Louis sneaking glances in his direction, but tries to ignore it because he's not sure he'll be able to hold himself back for too long. Tonight has only served to reinforce the idea that has been nagging Harry since their meeting in the bookshop: that he needs to feel Louis mouth on his.

When the Ford Fiesta finally comes to a stop, in its regular parking spot, it's past two in the morning. It’s the car engine being turned off that allows Harry to feel the weight of the whole night settling down. They hung out. They once again talked about meaningful, deep stuff. They bowled and egged Louis' grandfather's house. Louis touched him. So much. Everywhere.

Actually, if he concentrates Harry can still feel the imprints of Louis' short fingers burning his skin, as if left by a branding iron. Louis is still by his side, not moving much except for his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Harry wonders if he should say something, but he can’t quite grasp the words. Nothing seems important enough to be discussed. He can't even begin to explain this night, and he's not really sure he wants to.

There's rustling by his left and when Harry wakes up from his reverie he realises Louis has turned to him. The man makes a tiny choked up sound in the back of his throat, almost as if he was starting to say something but gave up halfway and, instead, just drapes his arm behind Harry's headrest. Harry looks at Louis curiously, but the other man doesn't say anything.

There is static making the hair behind Harry's neck raise and he wonders if Louis can feel it in his forearm. Where did this tension suddenly come from? The air is charged and unsteady, which seems to slow things down. Louis gaze bores into him with razor sharp blue eyes, but it’s not uncomfortable, just unsettling. Anticipative. You can nearly see tiny electric particles floating around, but no one dares to move, afraid of breaking the fragile moment.

Eventually, Harry gives in. “What?” he mumbles quietly.

Louis shakes his head gently, one corner of his lips tweaking to form a slight, sweet smile. “Nothing,” he mumbles back, raspy voice sending shivers down Harry's spine. “Just... thanks, again.” He removes his arm and Harry can instantly breathe again, cold air filling his lungs. “You're a nice person, Harry. Lottie's lucky for finding you first.”

“What?” he asks again, this time much louder and absolutely shocked. Louis couldn't have possibly meant what Harry thinks he meant. But Louis is already climbing out of the car and walking into the house, leaving him behind. Harry takes one whole minute to recover and get out of the car too. Louis has left the key in the keyhole, so Harry locks the front door and take the stairs up to Lottie's room. There's no sign of Louis upstairs. Did he really just escape and hid after saying that?

Resigned, Harry goes to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. When he finishes, passing in front of Louis' room, he's knocking before he even thinks it through. His heart is pumping loud in his ears in a frenetic rhythm and that's so stupid. There's no response, though. Not even a “Go, away.” Just reasonable and friendly silence. Harry sighs, muttering “Good Night, Lou,” into the wood, but he's sure the other man couldn't even hear him.

Lottie is sound asleep when he takes off his eggy trousers and slides under the covers of the improvised bed on the floor. He rolls from side to side, but sleep takes a long time to come. Whenever he closes his eyes, images of Louis' – the golden shade of his soft hair, the shape of his small cute teeth, the way he moves when driving, even his fucking eyelashes – won't stop tormenting him. Louis is like a dream come true, from which Harry doesn’t ever want to wake up from. If he could at least sleep a wink...

-

As soon as Harry walks into the kitchen he's greeted by a too cheery Lottie for this time of the morning.

“Good morning, honey,” she says syrupy sweet, and when she reaches up to kiss his mouth Harry instinctively stops her. Damn it! He keeps forgetting this whole fake dating ordeal.

His friend gives him an indignant look and Harry awkwardly hugs her by the head, kissing her hair instead. He can't even sigh in relief, or assume that he didn't fuck up after all, because when he looks up Louis is watching them like a hawk. Thankfully, it's just the two eldest Tomlinsons in the kitchen.

 “I was just telling Louis that I was on the phone with Pops earlier and he said someone egged his house,” Lottie tells him when Harry releases her. His neck, hard for sleeping on the floor for two nights in a row, snaps so fast that it audibly cracks. When he locks eyes with Louis. From across the room the other man hides a smile behind his cup of tea, not looking a single ounce guilty.

“Uh...” Harry mumbles with lack of better things to say. “That... sucks.”

“I bet it was kids from his neighbourhood,” is Louis input, which Harry must confess comes off as quite convincing. He has to bite his bottom lip to avoid smiling because there's definitely a mischievous glint in Louis' eyes.

“But why would they do that?” Lottie wants to know. 

Louis shrugs, a 'kids will be kids' kind of shrug, before putting his mug into the sink and leaves.

“Sorry,” Harry apologizes to Lottie as soon as her brother is out of earshot. “For the kiss. Or kiss fiasco, I-”

“It's okay, you had just woken up,” she assures him whilst munching on a biscuit. But then she pinches his bottom, jokingly saying: “But try not to mess up next time, yeah? There's scrambled egg in that pan... want me to toast you some bread?”

“Would you?”

“Of course, sit down,” she says, popping two slices into the toaster. “So, what were you two up to last night?”

Harry's about to stutter a string of lies, about to bite the bait, when he thinks better and answers her question with another one. “Didn't Louis tell you?”

“He said you went sightseeing...” she offers, back turned to him as she reheats the egg. Damn eggs.

“Yep.”

“What took you so long, though? There's not much to see in Doncaster.”

Harry's saved by Doris running into the kitchen like a thunder, grabbing her sister's legs screaming. “Lottie! Ernie's gonna catch me! Don't let him, doooon't!”

“God almighty, stop screeching. Go play somewhere else.”

But the girl doesn't give up, running to Harry instead. “Harry! Ernie is coming! Lift me up.”

He does so, right on time. The little blond girl squawks in excitement when Harry holds her up, out of her twin's reach. “That's not fair!” Ernie complains when he sees them, small fists punching Harry's thigh harmlessly.

“Harry's my friend!” Doris exclaims, hugging him by the neck tightly to make Ernie jealous.

“No! Put her down. That's cheating,” the boy whines.

“You don't know what you've got yourself into, mate,” Louis says, appearing out of nowhere. Harry startles, but Louis doesn't notice because he's too busy lifting Ernie up too. “There ya go,” he says, smiling openly at his little brother, crinkles in full force. Harry's empty stomach flips inside of him like a pancake. “We're off to play some footie in ten, you in?” Louis invites, turning to Harry, while bouncing Ernie up and down.

“I don't know... I'm terrible at football,” he answers, sitting down on the stool again with Doris still clinging to him.

Lottie places the plate in front of him, saying, “Nonsense, we're all playing and nobody here is exactly a Ronaldo.”

“Excuse you?” Louis protests jokingly.

“But watch out for Louis,” she continues, “‘cause he likes to show off.”

“Now that is just absurd... Ernie, do I ever show off when we kick some ball?”

“No, Louis is just the best,” the boy says, earning a hair ruffle. Lottie takes a place beside Harry rolling her eyes and shooing all her siblings away. Louis leaves again, this time juggling a pair of reckless and loud toddlers.

Outside, the day is oddly dry and warm, given it's still just the beginning of April and how up North they are. The sun is a small golden dollop in the clear sky and although it's the middle of the morning, the grass is a bit wet from last night.

They're playing in the backyard, where the day before Louis took his siblings to throw rocks at the river. There's a large field between the house and the water stream. Jay, the only one not joining them, watches and plays referee from the paved patio at the back of the house. Harry can't help but smile noticing how Doris and Ernest look the cutest with their kits and boots on.

Dan and Louis are splitting teams, and when all the other players line up in a queue and Dan picks Harry first, Louis cracks in a loud obnoxious laugh.

“What?” Dan asks, obliviously.

“He said he has two left feet, mate” Louis informs him.

“I've never said that,” Harry mumbles under his breath, quite offended by something that's absolutely the truth. Dan shrugs since he can't simply unpick Harry, tapping Harry's back in sympathy or maybe just a hint of a threat. Louis points at Lottie and gestures her to come stand behind him.

Pheebs and Daisy are called after, each twin in a different team, which makes Fizzy protest. “Oi! Am I really gonna get picked last? After the babies?!” They can hear Jay's delightful laugh from where she's sat wrapped in a quilt and having a cuppa.

“We are not babies,” Ernest and Doris screech in unison.

“'Course not. Right, Louis can have both twins. Come here, Fiz.” Dan says cheerily, holding a hand up for a hi-five, but the girl ignores him and comes to stand by Harry's side.

“Are you really that bad?” she asks, smiling at their misery.

“Oh, I'm pretty bad,” Harry admits bashfully.

“In this case, we're fucked. Lottie was a goalie at school, so it's probably already settled she's doing that. Daisy is a competitive little shit. And Louis will summon his minions,” Fizzy says referring to the small children, “to kick us in the shins until we give up, because he just fucking knows nobody has the heart to ask them to at least _try_ to aim at the ball.” Harry laughs because he can picture Louis doing exactly that. “Dan's strategy is always 'Let's just have some fun, guys!' which... Ugh.”

They're tossing a coin to decide who gets to kick off and who gets to choose the sides. Two pairs of old wellies are being used as goal posts. When everything is sorted – Dan's team gets to start but they also get the goal on the sunny side – Jay whistles from her seat to kick off the game.

As Fizzy predicted, they're getting their arses kicked. Lottie is like a brick wall, never letting anything past. Doris and Ernie in fact seem more determined to hit their opponents ankles than the ratty football as they should. And Louis... Louis is just ridiculously good.

Whenever the ball's on his feet, which is more often than not, he flees through the field like a flash. His hair falls behind him in the wind and there's a permanent smile plastered on his face, that only fades away when he enters the small area and concentrates to land a precise kick and score. Such passion and technique are infuriating to compete with, but beautiful to witness.

Harry tries his best, he swear he does, but his tight skinny jeans aren't helping. He can't stay with the ball for more than a few mere seconds before Louis is stealing it with his impressive footwork. The man even has the audacity of looking up at him through his sweaty hair, that keeps falling on his forehead, and smile challenging. Harry's having a hard time not smiling back, completely charmed. He's probably not even trying not to.

It's during one of the tackles, a quite violent one, that Harry ends up knocking both of them to the ground, landing on top of Louis. The first thing he feels is one of Louis' muscular legs right between his. Then he realises how close they are; they've never been this close to each other. Louis short breathe is literally fanning the curl above Harry's ear. He can see Louis' golden stubble and the faint freckles on his cheek.

Louis heart is beating so loud that it sounds like a caged lion roaring for release. Harry is sure his is as well, but it has little to do with the physical effort he had just been having. Louis' thin lips are parted, Harry can even see the tip of Louis' rosy tongue and the other man is so hot under him that it's unnerving. Everything is hot. If he was made of wax Harry would be a melted mess on top of Louis at this point.

“Hi,” Louis whispers softly, so low that Harry's not sure he hears it correctly.

“Oops,” he murmurs back either way, biting his bottom lip and certainly flushing, if the way his cheeks are warming up are any indication.

There are fingers playing on the small of his back, Harry's positively sure. It's just a faint feeling, nearly not there, but Louis is definitely playing with the hem of his t-shirt. It sends wave after wave of white, blinding warmness. The caress is so tender and yet so overpowering that Harry's bones crush, rattle, and turn into dust. He never wants to let go.

It's only when the other man starts wiggling underneath him that Harry finally makes a move to get up. He had barely remembered that they were in the middle of a game, couldn’t even remember the game they were playing, or that there were other people around.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles when he regains the use his voice, helping Louis up. His slightly smaller hand inside of Harry's looks as if it's always belonged there. Damn it. He's probably more than infatuated at this point.

“It's okay, mate. Perks of the game,” Louis replies awkwardly, patting Harry on the back in a, trying too hard to be casual, manner. What on Earth?

“How about we let the goalies play for a bit too?” Dan suggests, approaching them.

“Brilliant,” Louis says immediately, jogging to ask Daisy to take Lottie's position. Harry's put defending his team goal by an apologetic Dan, even though he assures he's more than okay stepping back.

For the rest of the game, whenever Louis is near his goal, Harry avoids facing him, choosing instead to look at the ground. Avoiding the other man is proven extremely difficult though, because: first, Harry should be really paying attention if he doesn't want his team to be more humiliated than they already are; second, there's this problem which involves Louis being so stunning that it's simply impossible to keep your eyes off of him.

When Jay finally blows the final whistle Harry sighs in relief because that means he finally gets a break from Louis' overwhelming presence, right? Wrong.

“Mum's bringing water and then we're going to collect blackberries round the property, yeah?” Lottie says after she's walked up to him and hugged him by the waist. Her hair is dishevelled, and Harry knows Manchester Lottie would probably throw a fit if she saw the state of her now. But Doncaster Lottie is way more kind and chill. Harry likes Doncaster Lottie a lot.

“Sure,” Harry mumbles sullenly. It looks like there's more Louis ahead. Great.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and when Harry doesn't quite understand, the girl adds. “Cause you've fallen on top of Louis, remember? Are you fine? You seemed a bit... shaken when you got up on your feet.”

“Ah, I'm great. Just... brilliant, really. Fantastic.”

She eyes him suspicious, but doesn't pressure for more. He needs to start relaxing whenever Louis is mentioned or he'll end up giving himself off.

Everybody gathers at the patio, passing glasses and bottles of water around. There's a twig stuck to Doris hair and Ernie's knees are grass green but they're both excitedly chatting about blackberries and honeysuckles. Louis is hunched over the balustrade that separates the house from the backyard, catching his breathe. Harry definitely doesn't stare wishfully at the offensive slope that make up his slim waist and bum.

This time even Jay joins them. The Deakin/Tomlinson property isn't a large estate, but there's still a great deal of land to walk on. Shrubs and trees aren't in full bloom yet, but it's a pleasant walk nonetheless. The Yorkshire countryside is beautiful, it evokes something bucolic and natural within whoever is willing to appreciate it. Harry feels at ease letting the fresh air fill his lungs, and watching the idyllic scenery surrounded by pleasant people.

The little ones walk ahead of the group, carrying baskets in which they excitedly plop the few berries they find, and anything else they stumble upon and think it's worth keeping. Dan has to convince them to let go of a few rocks after Ernie's basket starts weighing more than he can handle. The elder twins flank Jay and Louis, who are strolling the dirt path very close to each other. The woman holds onto her son's arm and leans into him, endeared whenever he says something that makes her laugh. It's maddeningly sweet.

Behind them, Lottie walks hand in hand with Harry, pointing out peculiar little things on the way that she remembers liking when growing up. “There's this tiny mound of sand on the river... there, you see? We used to call it “The Island” when growing up. Whoever managed to get there without touching the water would be declared Ruler of “The Island”. Fizzy jumped straight into the water so many times trying to get there,” she tells him while laughing.

“I was little and you and Louis bullied me into doing so,” Fizzy, who was walking a few steps behind them, catches up to defend her honour.

“Oh Lord, here she goes. Everything's bullying to you...”

“That's because it was.”

Lottie ignores her, turning to Harry again to tell more curious things about her childhood. Later, when recollecting everything that happened to him in Doncaster, Harry will decide that this was one of the nicest moments of his trip. Getting to know more about Lottie, small, silly details that she probably would deem unimportant, but that make her exactly who she is today. That was one of the best experiences he's had that Easter. To Harry, what people recall with fondness, what they hold dear to their hearts, is a reflection of their real selves. He loves learning people to their inner core.

Fizzy keeps following them from not too far behind, and Harry has a sense that she might want to talk to him. They formed a delicate bond over books and he's caught the girl watching him with interest on many occasions throughout his stay. She seems particularly interested in his adventures and the things he has to tell about life as an adult, and how free and fascinating it sounds. Lottie leaves them alone when she untangles from Harry to go inspect what's in everyone’s baskets.

“Madam?” Harry jokes, offering his arm for Fizzy to hold. The girl chuckles before catching up and accepting the offer. “So, have you finished Brave New World?”

“Not yet, no,” she says, kicking some pebbles out of her way. “But I think I'm reading something from Anäis Nin next.”

“Oh,” Harry exclaims, caught off guard. “Are you sure? I don't think it's... hm, age appropriate.” Anäis Nin is quite a raunchy writer, if he could say so himself. Many of her stories describe, in exquisite detail, all sorts of sex acts. She's also very dear in Harry's small circle of friends, especially among the girls who like girls.

Noticing the pink of Harry's cheeks, Fizzy laughs out loud. “It's not like I'm an immaculate _blushing_ virgin,” she teases, making the man blush even more. God, why are all the Tomlinsons so... cheeky and out there? They'll all end up giving Harry a stroke.

“Still...” he mutters for a lack of better things to say. “I just think the thematic... Erm, I don't know. Have you ever read Virginia Woolf?” he asks trying to change the topic.

“Yeah, of course. I love her writing. Specially the ones that imply her lesbians tendencies,” the girl deadpans. Okay, by now Harry is quite convinced she means to share something with him. And he's 99% sure of what it is.

“Hm... Yeah, she's a genius. I fancy reading women authors too. I don't know, to put myself in your shoes, you know? Women's shoes, I mean.”

Fizzy turns to him with a mischievous glint in her eyes, and then asks, bluntly, “Are you into crossdressing, Harry?”

He throws his head back exploding in a laugh, and the girl stands smug by his side. His belly aches by the time the fit finally dies down.

“No, I'm not,” he answers delayed. “Not that I know of, I’ve never tried.” And then, deciding to go big or go home, noticing that they got left behind by the rest of her family, he asks, “What about you? Are you into girls?”

They stop walking, standing in the middle of the narrow path that leads to the border of the property. The wind is blowing loud and the sky, clear an hour ago, is starting to close up in itself in a daunting shade of grey. She merely blinks at him a couple of time, before nodding slowly in confirmation. “Yes? I... I think I am, yes. I mean, I definitely am.”

“Have you ever told anyone this?” He asks, voice controlled and laced with the right amount of concern, sounding mature even to his own ears.

“I have, yes,” she says shakily, and for the first time Harry notices she's nervous. He wants to hug the girl and promise things will be alright. But he holds himself back and, instead, just listens to what she has to say. “To Tiffany. She's a girl from school. A friend. Who happens to be the girl who made me discover that I fancy girls too. I mean, I didn't have to proper _tell_ her,” she says, smiling longingly. “She figured out when we snogged our faces off of each other.”

“Okay,” Harry interrupts high pitched, all his cool flying right out of the window. Jesus, he's an embarrassment sometimes. Why is this girl even trusting him with her secret? “Sorry, but why are you telling me this?”

She shrugs. “I don't know, you seemed kinda cool. You’re… you know, a person from outside, not involved enough to care. And also because I can kill you in your sleep.” Harry indulges her by fake gasping at that. “Don't laugh, I've read some tutorials on the internet. I wouldn't joke if I were you.”

Harry grabs her arm again, pulling her so they can continue walking. “Are you going to tell your mum? Or somebody else in your family?” he asks softly after a moment of silence.

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

It's quiet again, and the only sound is of their feet crunching leaves on the ground. They watch as a bird unsuccessfully dives down into the water steam and comes out with nothing. “I guess that it's because Louis is already the gay one,” Fizzy finally answers.

“What?” Harry asks, stupefied.

“He's already the gay kid. I'm not sure if there's a place for another queer person in my family.”

“Don't say that! It's... it's so silly. And not true at all. I mean, if you had given me another reason I'd maybe get behind it. But this...” he shakes his head, upset. “There is no such thing as a gay quota.”

“But do I really have to come out?” she asks, big eyes wandering, suddenly looking so small, yet still so strong. “I mean, I like boys as well. What if I tell mum that I'm pan or whatever and end up marrying a bloke. They'll... undermine my sexuality.”

“Well, of course you don't _have to_ come out. Unless you're uncomfortable keeping it a secret. Or you really want to be open about it but feel trapped somehow. It's personal, you don't have to shout for the world to hear that you like vaginas.” That earns him a giggle from her. “But it's part of who you are, don't you think?”

Fizzy nods, and as they reach the property's limit they stop for a moment to admire the never ending green fields.

“What if you talked with Louis about it?” Harry suggests, remembering how Gemma was the one he sought whenever he needed to vent his teenage angst. “I'm quite sure he'd understand you. And he knows from personal experience how it is to be 'the gay one' in your family.”

“Do you think he'd take me seriously?”

“Of course he would,” he guarantees, because he just knows without a doubt that Louis would only be loving and kind to his sister. “I think he's an understanding person. Besides, that's what older brothers are for.”

As they keep on walking down the dirt path, they catch sight of the rest of the family standing under the shadow of an oak tree. “Thanks, Harry,” Fizzy says before they join the group again. “You're really cool, as a suspected,” she adds, bumping shoulders with the man.

“My sister would agree to disagree, but thanks,” he says genuinely smiling at her.

“There you are!” Lottie says practically jumping on Harry. Fizzy gets away from them, rolling her eyes and Harry winks at her over Lottie's platinum head. “Come on, they've found honeysuckle.”

She drags him in the direction of a bush surrounded by Louis, Phoebe and the little twins.

“Harry! Harry!” Doris calls out, excited, already running in his direction holding up a flower. “I saved you a honeysuckle! Look!”

“Oh, I see. Thanks, darling,” he says, crouching down and gladly accepting the gift. “Yummy!” he adds, sucking on the bottom of it. When he looks up, out of the corner of his eye, Harry catches Louis watching them with such an intense gaze that Harry feels ablaze all over.

But here's the thing: not even the sweet aftertaste of nectar on his tongue is capable of masking the bitter lies Harry's been telling lately.

-

There's a party in Lottie's room.

Well, not a party _per se_ , but there's a lot of people. And Harry just wants to freaking change. But there's Fizzy in there, filling in her eyebrows, borrowing Lottie's makeup supplies. There's this girl Harry's never seen before, who he's guessing is a friend of theirs, also painting her face. The younger pair of twins are also in the room, messing around and driving their older sister insane. And then there's Louis, begging for some hair spray or some other thing to keep his quiff up because it won't stop tumbling down in a soft wave.

And Harry's there on the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist and another as a turban on his head. The group doesn't even mind him as he stands there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself.

“I don't know, Lottie,” Louis says, a hint peeved, “gel, mousse, hair spray, whatever. Just want this shit to stop falling on me forehead.”

“Why don't you get one of mum's?”

“I don't know where she keeps it. Why can't you just give me some? Is that so much to ask? Christ...”

The girl laughs at her brother who’s having a fit for nothing. “I'm busy, Louis. I've put it in the bathroom, why don't you- Hey, Harry!” she finally notices her fake boyfriend at the door way. “Why are you standing there like a deer caught in the headlights? Come on in... Honey,” she adds, clearly forgetting their term of endearment.

“Uh...” he says, eloquent as always, shirtless torso dripping wet.

“Harry,” Louis huffs out with a shaky smile on his face as he takes the other man in. “That's, hm. That's... a very nice tattoo,” he compliments, focusing on the butterfly inked to Harry's belly, after eyeing the other man all the way up from his toes. Oh God, this night was already starting off on the wrong foot.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles, pretty aware of his nakedness, face feeling hot. “I'll just... get my... Sorry, could I just-?” he asks, bumping into the unknown girl, inching his way into the room desperately in need of his bag.

When he finally manages to snatch it he flees to the bathroom and locks himself in. He talks himself into breathing calming long breaths. Okay, Louis definitely checked him out. It was very obvious, even to Harry who can be a bit unaware sometimes. But it's _absolutely_ understandable. He knows he looks good, or at least decent, without a shirt on. If he was in Louis' place he'd do the same. There was a half naked man in the same room as him, and he's attracted to men, of course he'd sneak a glance. No big deal.

But why does Harry feel as if he's still being watched, hot as if under a burning spotlight? He should have felt dirty when Louis was checking him out but, on the contrary, he’s quite flattered. He really wants Louis to look at him like that again, to be the object of his desire. Just imagining what it would be like to blind Louis with lust makes Harry all fidgety. He throws cold water on his face to stop the disturbing, unwanted thoughts that start popping into his mind.

He's buttoning up his shirt when Lottie knocks on the door. “Hey, Harry. Are you alright?” Just by the tone she's using he can tell she's alone on the other side.

“Yeah, nearly finished.”

“It's okay, just wanted to check.” Harry opens the door so they can talk properly. “You weren't upset ‘cause there were people in my room, were you?” She asks with a small line of concern pinching in between her brows.

“No, it's fine,” he assures her, smiling.

“Cause you seemed so startled, I've never seen you like that.”

Oh God, he really needs to be more careful around Louis, or else people will start noticing his blatant crush on him. Lottie in particular seems to be already smelling something fishy. She still hasn't forgotten their small escapade the previous night. “Was I? I was... I was just caught off guard, that's all. Where's this pub we're heading to?” he asks to try and change the subject.

“It's in town, Dan's driving us. We hope it's open, cause tomorrow's Easter Sunday and Doncaster can be so old fashioned sometimes. Are you ready?”

“Just need to blow dry my hair.”

“Nice trousers, by the way” Lottie points out, noticing Harry's white skinny jeans.

“Are they too much?” he asks, slightly self-conscious, not wanting stand out. He keeps forgetting he's not in a big city.

“Nah, they're perfect. Since we don't get to make out, I might at least flaunt you around,” she adds cheekily.

“We could, you know?” Harry jokes back as he plugs in the hair dryer.

“It's not me you have your eyes on,” is the last thing she says before leaving and it's very convenient that Harry's already burning his right ear off with the blow dryer. He pretends to not have heard what she said while something unsettling weighs on in his guts. Hopefully he'll be able to drown whatever it is with a couple of pints.

-

Like any other small town old pub, The Boar's Head is not the slightest bit impressive from outside. The atmosphere inside is intense, though. It's crowded, stuffy, dim and there's a band playing loud rock music in a corner. It's an authentic English pub: it has an abundance of Victorian mahogany and counter tops, and a great deal of divides, ideal for more heart to heart conversation.

There are no places to sit by the time their large group arrives. Louis' mates from school, Oli and Calvin, have also joined them at the door. Looking around, people are excitedly greeting each other as they are at a school reunion, many probably home for the holiday. Louis and Fizzy split the first round, going to the bar get the pints while the others try to find a less crowded place to stand. Harry and Lottie walked in hand in hand, and now he feels a bit out of place as the girl talks in secretive whispers and giggles with her friend and Louis' mates converse with each other.

“Here you are,” Fizzy says, passing him a pint and standing by his side.

“Thank you, darling. Wait, can you even drink?”

She fixes him with a blank stare. “I'm eighteen, Harry.”

“Fair enough, sorry. Did you bump into anyone you know? It seems like everyone knows each other,” he says, looking around the bar at its chummy atmosphere.

“No, this town is full of clowns. Can't wait to get out of here.”

“Right,” he says, not knowing how to answer after that. He sips his pint, trying not to watch Louis laughing with his friends. Harry thinks he's doing a pretty good job, only glancing in their direction every ten to twenty seconds, until Louis laughs loudly, throwing his head back and Harry is gone. It’s just that... it’s just that when Louis laughs openly the column of his neck is on display, prettier than all those Greek columns you learn about in art class. Harry wants, no, _needs_ to kiss it.

Harry is still thinking about how nice it would be to move over Louis' neck, and honestly his whole body, with his lips, when the other man recovers from the fit and locks eyes with him. Disconcerted, Harry chugs down his pint in one go, leaning into Lottie to make Louis stop staring. She smiles up at him but continues talking with her friend, and Harry can't really engage in their conversation.

When she finally gives him attention, they chat a bit about the day. Harry tells her that he was “just talking about nothing, really,” when she asks why he and Fizzy stayed behind during the afternoon outing. She discreetly points out some people in the crowd, telling curious stories or just silly gossip about them.

Louis' group of friends merges with theirs again when one of them clearly has his eyes on Lottie's friend, and they keep on making small talk or just generally enjoying the music as more and more rounds of pints keep coming.

When it's Harry and Lottie's turn to get beer, they make quick work of it, the girl being good mates with the bartender. As they elbow their way back to their group Harry spots a new addition, standing by Louis' side and whispering something into his left ear.

It's a guy about their age, tall with dark hair, and he's bloody handsome. Really, he's striking. He has stubble sculpted by the gods and his whole face, to be quite honest, seems to be a well out thought work of higher beings. Harry passes around the pints he'd been balancing, keeping one to himself. When he finally sets back on his place, standing between the Tomlinson girls, he notices that the stranger has a hand on the small of Louis' back as he talks with him, and in such an intimate way that it makes Harry's insides roar.

He fidgets in his spot, avoiding looking at the pair, but they are right in front of him, all flirty and giggly across the small circle they make. Lottie leans into Harry, feet probably tired of her high heels by now, but then she catches his attention and tells in a sleazy way that is too pointed to be innocuous: “That's Luke. He's Louis' ex.”

“Oh,” he exclaims in what he hopes is a nonchalant tone. “Is he?”

“Yep,” she says popping the P obnoxiously. Harry wants to shave her hair off. And then Luke's, so he stops being so good looking.

“How's the work in the hospital?” Oli asks when Luke finally detaches himself from Louis, letting the smaller guy breathe.

“Oh, you know... it's hard, but so worthy,” he says, and Harry grits his teeth sourly, because even his voice is nice and smooth, what the hell?

“So, you're a doctor,” Harry says before he can stop himself, and it doesn't even come off as a question, just as a bitter remark. “What's your speciality?”

“I'm a plastic surgeon.”

“Of course you are,” Harry sneers, because that would explain everything, right?

“No, no...” he denies shaking his head half heartedly bashful. “I know what you're thinking,” Luke says, pointing at his own face which... Is this man for real? Harry wants to smack his face into the nearest wall. “But I work with burn victims.”

“He's basically a _saint_ ,” Louis adds, and Harry's eyes travel straight to where Louis is clinging to the other man's strong biceps, squeezing it reassuring. Harry has never wished his eyes could shoot laser beams more than now.

“Stop that,” the man says, all fake modesty that Harry’s grown to hate in these past two minutes. “Are you Lottie's fancy man, then?” he asks, turning to Harry.

“No, I'm her _boyfriend_ ,” Harry replies cutting, in such a low tone that Louis' drops his arm from the hold on Luke. Blame it on the too many pints he’s had, or even on his jealous nature, but Harry simply could not bite his tongue. He's generally a quite laid back lad, he really is. But the urge to argue was stronger than him, especially watching how Louis, usually so out there and loud, became so soft and caring with Luke.

“Right,” Luke says when the weird vibe extends for an uncomfortable amount of time. “It was lovely seeing you again, Lou. And the girls,” he adds sending a dashing pearly smile in their direction, staring at Harry with a challenging glint in his beautiful brown eyes. “Send my love to Jay,” he says, kissing Louis on the cheek, “and have a happy Easter.”

-

It's 2 AM and Harry's drunk. He's not pissed, but it's been awhile since he's been this drunk. The world is fuzzy around its edges and the music doesn't really stick to his brain, just travels through his ears and gets lost somewhere. His fingertips are light as feathers and he can't really feel his white trousers hanging low on his hips, so low that you can see hair peeking underneath the shirt.

After Luke's departure, Louis and his mates said they'd circulate a bit (to Calvin's despair, since he was still focused on chatting Lottie's friend up). That obviously let Harry wondering if it wasn't just an excuse Louis made up when, in fact, he had agreed on meeting his hot ex for a quickie in an alleyway or something. Not that Harry was being paranoid, it's just a very reasonable possibility. Besides, Luke was, indeed, very hot.

Lots of other people came by to catch up on what Lottie was doing in Manchester or what Fizzy's planning on doing after college. Harry is introduced to them all and he can't actually remember the names of any of them. None of that matters when Louis is probably having his dick sucked by Luke in Luke's posh car; a Lamborghini or something.

Harry needs a wee and a cuddle. In reality, he needs to be back in Manchester and away from Lottie. She's put him in such a state of distress that there's no way out at this point. Not a simple, painless way out, because Harry's already too involved in all of this mess. And so gone for Louis. Not in love, of course not, that'd be ridiculous at his age, but on the verge. He _could_ be, if he allowed himself.

The walk to the bathroom is short but quite tortuous due to his woozy head, but when he stumbles in there's no one. To be fair, the pub is not half as full as it was when they got there. He chooses a random urinal and lets it flow. He's struggling with the short fly of his white jeans when Louis arrives.

Louis is still laughing at something that someone who stayed outside had said, but as soon as his eyes land on Harry the laughter dies. Harry feels his bones get heavier, feels his stomach get stormy, and feels suddenly too aware of his drunkenness.

“Hey,” Louis simply greets him.

“Hey you,” he rasps back, lazy tongue heavy inside his mouth. “I... better go,” Harry says dumbly when Louis starts to pee two stalls from him.

“No, wait,” he slurs, and now Harry realizes the other man is at least tipsy too. “I wanna talk to you. Just... wait.”

So he does, awkwardly bouncing from one foot to the other and intently reading all the graffiti on the tiles until Louis is finished.

“We should talk,” the other man repeats, and Harry realizes he's nervous. Or that he probably doesn't have much to say, which doesn't make any sense because he just said he wanted to talk. Harry just watches him, waiting, not even pressuring or anything. “You have really big eyes,” Louis surprisingly says in between small nods, as if he just noticed now.

“Thanks?”

“No, like, really big. You look like a cartoon. An anime.”

Harry lets out a strangled laugh at that, realizing how Louis is suddenly really close, not even realizing the man had walked into his personal space.

“And your hair,” Louis says, gesticulating wildly to embrace all of Harry's mane, “it's like Goku's. But when he becomes a Super Saiyajin.”

Okay, Louis is definitely drunk. But so is Harry, which may be the explanation for why he's finding Louis' rant so endearing.

“That's Dragon Ball, right? Doesn't he get blond when he-”

“Stop talking, please,” Louis interrupts, almost as if he’s irritated. “Whenever you start talking I remember those... those stupid Neruda poems you sold me. And it's so... so...”

“Frustrating?”

“Yes! Exactly, frustrating. But shush,” he says, landing a finger over Harry's lips. Louis looks as if he's about to give one of his disconnected speeches, and Harry's fine with that as long as he keeps touching him. “It's absolutely bloody frustrating because of who you are. But you give me a reason, don't you? I can't be in this alone, I _know_ I'm not. Cause you are always fucking there, everywhere, really, no matter where I look. Just so bloody _inviting_ , that's the thing. That fucking butterfly…” he says rolling his eyes as if remembering the tattoo. “And Luke! Like... Really? That was not subtle _at all_.”

Harry keeps looking at him, Louis' finger now gone but the ghost of it still there, heavy on his lips. He called Harry inviting, but he is the one who's maddeningly alluring. Damn, Louis is so handsome, Harry thinks, admiring his face up close and the way his nose is flawlessly sculpted. Besides, there's so much contained tension. So much unreleased sexual tension. So many feelings that a quick brush of skin to skin, meant to be meaningless, won't ever convey.

It would be so easy to just lean in and kiss him. It would take zero effort, Louis' shoes are already toe to toe to his. It would be what Harry has been wanting to do practically since he landed eyes on Louis, what his few PG 13 dreams with Louis are about. His skin is itching with how much he wants this. His bones ache, as heavy as lead. In the end, the only thing he does is take Louis into his arms.

Louis goes in easily, with a soft, surprised “Oof!” that gets lost in Harry's hair. His marine jumper smells of cigarettes and cologne and the fabric feels absurdly soft under Harry's palms. Louis hugs Harry by the neck, one hand running all over brown curls appreciatively, but in a frenzy. With his heart growing twice its size inside his chest, Harry has a smile creeping on his face that he presses to Louis' temple.

He can feel the other man's warm, damp breath through his silk shirt and it's driving him insane. He lets his hands roam Louis' torso, and when he finally clutches the deep of Louis' waist his knees almost give in with how delicious he finds the idea of his big hands on the smaller man. Louis lets out the tiniest of the moans when Harry clasps him there. It's, for sure, the hottest embrace that Harry has ever experienced.

“What the fuck are we doing?” Louis asks when his face finally leaves the crook of Harry's neck. He tenderly brushes Harry's hair out of his face, trying to get it back into place, cupping his cheek with a hand afterwards. Harry's stomach does a funny swoop and it's unbelievable that Louis is this close, looking at him with stormy blue eyes.

Suddenly he realizes how torn Louis has to be. You can see the conflict in his black, blown out pupils. You can almost hear the internal debate, his brain wrecking itself, trying to will himself to get away from his sister's supposed boyfriend, to do the right thing.

Instead, he backs Harry against the bathroom's door and traps him there with his own body. Harry, content, would like to never leave, to stay like this forever. He must be smirking, or something on his face must give off how much he's enjoying all of this, because Louis groans in surrender before he attacks Harry's neck.

Grabbing Harry by his tacky shirt, he pulls their bodies flush against each other and starts nibbling on Harry's exposed neck. His lips travel all the way from where Harry's sharp jaw bone makes a right angle to the curve where his neck turns into shoulder. Harry shudders when Louis bites and pinches his skin between his teeth, finally putting them to good use, leaving indecent marks all over Harry's pale neck.

Harry doesn't even know what to do with himself. Louis' hands pin him down by the chest against the door and he's sure Louis can feel his heart pumping ridiculously loud behind his ribcage. Harry's own hands are still glued to Louis’ slim waist, the only thing anchoring him to reality. A guttural whimper escapes his mouth when Louis licks a wet strip over a bruise he was artfully imprinting, and Harry would be mortified, if it wasn't for Louis reaction. The man froze in Harry's arms and the only thing that moved was his pointed teeth, immediately biting down hard. So hard that they broke skin.

Harry lets one of his long legs slip between Louis' thighs, pressing up where he feels the other man hardening. Louis lets out a moan of his own before rustling against Harry's also tented groin with intent; once, twice, three times. Harry's head bobs back, eyes shut and mouth obscenely agape. He butts the door with a thud but he's too busy chasing Louis' hips movement, trying to repay the wave of pleasure travelling throughout his body.

There's another knock on the door, and Harry thinks it's one of his own limbs hitting it again, but then a voice sounding distant as ever shouts something incomprehensible from the other side and they both startle. Harry feels exposed, and very much sober and grounded, when Louis steps away from him, his white trousers bulging obscenely between them. Louis is still pressing Harry into place, but now with an arm distance between them, when the insistent knuckles knock again.

“Under maintenance!” Louis yells, and Harry can't contain the giggle that starts bubbling. Louis shoots him a warning look but Harry's too blissful to care.

He's very pleased with himself when he takes in the other man's state. Louis' hair is all over the place, his jumper twisted and, the best thing of all, his lips a puffy red. Running a hand through his own dishevelled hair, Harry sighs loudly, trying to calm down and control what's happening down in his pants.

“Sorry,” Louis blurts, and it sounds loud in the empty bathroom. The apology bounces on the vandalized walls and reverberates around the whole room, and even then Harry doesn't understand.

“For what?” He asks back, voice barely higher than a murmur because things are still too raw. Louis gesticulates vaguely between them, as if it answers anything. “I wanted it,” Harry confesses.

“Don't say that,” Louis replies exasperated, shaking his head at the ground.

“But it's the truth.”

“Harry, no. Don't you see how fucked up this is?” He enquires, indignant and so out of depth. Harry has never hated this whole stunt more than he hates it now. He could end this right here, could spill the truth to Louis and that would be the end of it.

But, by the look Louis has on his face, so grossed out after realisation hit him, so mad with himself for betraying his sister, Harry knows Louis would hate him if he confessed it was all a façade. He would absolutely despise him and all of Harry's chances of ever finding a sensible way of explaining this whole mess would be gone forever.

“You are right, I'm sorry,” Harry agrees, defeated. “It was... a mutual mistake I suppose.”

“Let's just avoid each other until Easter is over,” Louis says, and it's not a suggestion, it's a demand.

As Louis leaves the bathroom, Harry feels his heart reducing to the size of a pea. How can it shrink so much when he felt it expanding like the universe moments ago? How could Harry have felt like floating in Louis arms mere minutes ago and now feel as nothing more than a useless, deflated balloon?

He wonders if Lottie would hate him too much if he left the next morning, if he just took the train back to Manchester, back to the safeness of his flat. The web of lies they tangled themselves in is so intricate, vicious and mazy that Harry can't even find a way out. Not now when he still has alcohol running through his veins and Louis’ presence all over himself. But probably not tomorrow either. At this point, not even finding a way further in sounds like wise advice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took so long to come out, i thought i would never make it happen, but i'm glad i did. i honestly hope you enjoyed it and i won't give dates for the next update, but i've already started working on the next chapter so i think it won't take months again. i'd love to hear what you thought, but i can't even ask for comments after a hiatus this long, can i? :P
> 
> a major thanks to my go to beta [anna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoyoulittlepoofer/works) who's always available in record time and makes the funniest remarks.


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